The Case of the Cuddle
by Evenlodes Friend
Summary: Set after TGG, Sherlock is forced to face up to dark memories from his childhood. Johnlock, and a bit of Mystrade at the end. Deals with very dark, adult themes, including violence and child abuse. Now complete.
1. Chapter 1

**The Case of the Cuddle**

Set after TGG, Sherlock is forced to face up to dark memories from his childhood. John lock and Mystrade at the end. Deals with very dark, adult themes. Please review?

_This story is dedicated with love to my Sherlock-loving fangrrl niece, Amelia, who introduced me to the term 'Meh' as a verbal shrug. Memlet, you are the greatest, and I'm sorry this is such a gloomy one. I promise I'll write you a happy one next._

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><p>The first thing he became aware of was the surface on which he was lying. It was extremely hard. And very, very cold. But perhaps that was partly because he was soaked through. That was the second thing he became aware of. And the third, of course, was the fact that he was capable of being aware of anything at all, which seemed beyond a miracle.<p>

'Why am I not dead?' he said out aloud.

He opened his eyes. Lurid sodium glare of streetlights. And what was that, smoke? Something, somewhere, was burning. Big time.

And his ears were ringing.

I ought to be scared, he thought. But his heart beat was steady, although slightly raised, as was his breathing. Post exertion then.

Oh yes.

Moriarty. The bomb. The gun. Sherlock.

Sherlock!

But Sherlock was there, beside him, lying on his back too, on the pavement, soaked through, his chest heaving. He turned his head and their eyes met.

'Christ, that was close,' John wheezed, mostly in relief that Sherlock was moving.

'Understatement of the decade,' Sherlock said. And grinned. That lovely, lop-sided grin that John saw so rarely, and which made him feel like the sun had just come out after a hurricane.

It was endorphins and adrenaline and shock that made them both burst into hysterical giggles, but it felt so good to be alive, so incredible to be safe, so deliriously funny to be cold and wet and lying flat on their backs on a pavement in the middle of central London.

Then there were blue flashing lights, and fire engines and police cars, and ambulances and paramedics, and they had to get up, so they rolled and staggered and clawed their way up each other, still roaring with laughter, tears streaming down their cheeks, until they managed some semblance of being vertical.

Then there was Lestrade. Face as grey as his badger-striped hair.

'What the fuck?'

How can you explain away this one, John thought, and then watched as Sherlock did, with consummate style. Even if his speech was very slightly slurred, as if he was drunk, which John knew he wasn't.

What had actually happened was all a blur to John. Work, kidnap, bomb, pool, Sherlock, gun, snipers, boom, splash, pavement. It all spun in his head like a fairground ride, making him feel rather peculiar.

'I think I may be concussed,' he remarked, butting into the conversation.

Sherlock giggled helplessly.

John bent over with a decorous sweep and vomited on the detective's shoes.

'Oh, bollocks,' Sherlock hiccupped. 'Those were new.'

'You're both soaked,' John heard Lestrade say above his head.

'Pool,' John croaked at him. 'Chlorine.' And threw up again. 'Oh, dear.'

After that, it was a jumble of tableaux. The inside of the ambulance. The Accident and Emergency Unit. Mycroft's pinched face, aggressively unamused. The disapproval of the doctor when they insisted on going home. The inside of Mycroft's purring limousine. Sherlock's fingers fumbling with the keys to the door of the flat.

They staggered up the stairs, Sherlock labouring like Sir Edmund Hillary struggling up Everest, John bringing up the rear, his Sherpa Tensing, putting his shoulder to the detective's backside, partly to pitch him forward, partly to support himself. When they got to the living room, they looked about them in a daze.

'Should go to bed,' Sherlock said. 'S'pose.'

'Wet clothes,' John agreed. 'Hot shower?'

They looked at one another like a pair of drunks.

'Fuck that,' Sherlock said. And folded into the sofa.

John swayed. ''sruined.'

'Wha?'

'Coat.' He pointed. 'S'nice but 's'ruined.'

'Meh,' Sherlock shrugged. 'Get another one.'

John managed another resolute moment of swaying, and then what was left of his sense of balance dissolved, and he swallow-dived sideways (if such a thing is possible), landing on top of his prone flatmate.

'Ooof!'

They lay there.

'You weigh a ton,' Sherlock wheezed.

''leven stone.' John flopped sideways into the back of the couch, arm across Sherlock's chest, mouth unexpectedly full of sodden tweed. ''sno' much.'

'Nuff,' Sherlock mumbled.

And after that, there was sleep.

And an awareness of somebody snoring.

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><p>'Well, it wasn't me!' Sherlock was indignant. 'I don't snore!' He was lying on his back, his head on one of the union jack cushions. John was still pinned to the back of the sofa, but he was lying on his good side, and since his arm had lost all feeling about four hours previously, he saw no need to move from what was, if he was honest, a very enjoyable position. He was aware of being still slightly damp, but Sherlock's body was warm and comforting to snuggle against. And since the detective had a long arm around John's shoulders, and showed no hint of wishing to withdraw it, John had decided to make the most of the opportunity.<p>

'You _do_ snore,' John said, trying to sound as objective as possible. 'You snore like a hog.'

'Lies!'

'Like a whole herd of hogs.'

Sherlock wriggled down the leather upholstery so that he could rest his cheek against John's head.

'Utter, utter rubbish. And you know it.'

He nuzzled his snub nose into John's hair and snuffled as if he was hunting truffles.

'You smell of school swimming lessons,' he said. 'And brick dust.'

'Well, we did rather blow the bloody building up.'

'Not we,' the Great Detective corrected. 'He. Moriarty. Be precise, John. Your imprecision is the major barrier to your utilising what is clearly an excellent, if limited, mind.'

'I can't be precise when my skull feels like an elephant defecated in it,' John huffed. 'But thank you for the compliment. I think.'

Sherlock was quiet for a little while. Then he said, softly, 'do you feel very dreadful?'

John's breath caught in his throat, and stuck there, as if reluctant to move for fear of disturbing this new, tender version of the irascible, insufferable genius to whom he had become so close. He almost couldn't believe what he had heard. He managed to force himself to turn his head a little, and found he was looking up into Sherlock's worried, grey-blue eyes.

'A bit crap,' he said, trying to sound nonchalant about what they both knew was a lie.

'You must have borne the brunt of the blast,' Sherlock said, and the moment evaporated. 'You were above me when we hit the water, so the shock wave would have reached you by that point.'

'And you were already submerged,' John said, the memory coming back.

'You threw me in first,' Sherlock agreed. And pulled John infinitesimally closer. 'I appreciate the gesture.'

And they lay there, knotted together, silently contemplating the instinctive action that had saved both their lives.

John burrowed his head into Sherlock's shoulder.

'I should have realised you were the cuddly type,' Sherlock observed after a while.

'Why?' John's voice was muffled by the now wrecked tweed of the overcoat's mammoth collar.

'You just look like you would be.'

'And what does the so-called cuddly type look like, Mr Know it all?'

'You mean apart from looking like you?'

'Be precise, genius.'

'Well, sort of-' Sherlock was blushing slightly. 'Soft. And cuddly.'

'Teddy-bear sort of thing.'

'Mmm.'

'You do talk bollocks sometimes, Sherlock.'

'Well, contrary to popular opinion, I am actually part of the human race and it goes with the territory.' He grinned again, and John thought, I really do like it when he does that.

Then Sherlock was examining him.

'What?'

'Can I ask you something?'

'Yep. So long as you don't expect me to be precise.'

'Given the whole elephant dung on the brain thing?'

'Exactly.'

'This cuddling business.'

'Yes?'

'Well, it seems to me to have merits. Do you think we could do it more often?'

John squirmed until he managed to prop himself up on one elbow and look down on Sherlock. There was an expression on those strange features that for a moment he couldn't place. His brain was definitely on a go-slow. Then it came to him. Sherlock was looking coy. Perhaps even embarrassed.

'I think it could be arranged,' he said. And Sherlock beamed.

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><p>The noise that woke Sherlock that night was like nothing he had ever heard in his life. He was a brave man, not inclined to a belief in the supernatural, but if you had asked him the moment those terrifying shrieks started, he would have told you with absolute certainty that he believed in every kind of demon going...<p>

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><p><em>Tomorrow we journey into John's Heart of Darkness…<em>


	2. Chapter 2

**The Case of the Cuddle Chapter 2**

**Warning**: Contains violence

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed and favourited this story. I hoep it doesn't disappoint. I must admit to a little trepidation, I'm going into some dark territory here. Please let me know what you think.

OK, peeps, this is where things start to get a little less snuggly...

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><p>He had fallen asleep on the sofa after John had crept off to bed. He was not given to sleeping but the mild concussion resulting from the blast, from which John was clearly suffering more, seemed to be making it hard to keep his eyes open. He was in the middle of a dream of being curled up on a cloud, resting in rather alarmingly pink-tinged heavenly bliss, when the screaming started. Instinct propelled him from flat on his back to upright and running before he was really awake. He was half way up the stairs before he was fully conscious, before he heard Mrs Hudson rush out of her flat below.<p>

'Sherlock? John? What's going on?' There was a horrible fear in her voice.

'Go back to bed, Mrs H!' He shouted back, taking the last few steps two at a time. 'Everything is fine.'

But everything wasn't fine. John wasn't fine. Sherlock sure as hell wasn't fine. He was terrified. Terrified of what he was going to find behind the door on the attic landing.

'John? John?' He shouted at the wood panel, rattling the doorknob.

The screaming went on, punctuated by vicious snarls and hisses that spoke to Sherlock's hind brain, that part of him that traced its genetic inheritance not from Nobel Laureates and Cambridge Fellows but from neurotic gibbons and, further back, from small, furry creatures with lots and _lots_ of predators.

'John, it's me, Sherlock! I'm coming in!'

His stomach was churning. Please don't make me do this, John, he thought. I really, _really_ don't want you to make me do this. But the horrifying animal noises didn't let up. He had no choice. He twisted the handle and pushed.

The thin curtains did little to block out the nauseating orange glow of the street lamp outside. The shadows were indigo, and amongst them, in the corner, hunched a figure that Sherlock barely recognised. It heard him enter, and turned. Sherlock saw the slick of sweat highlighted on its forehead, and the way it shook. He saw the hideous gimlet glint in its eye. He knew this was not John. Not his John. This was something else, something that had remained buried, deep. This was the thing that the Army had made when they took the doctor's brain apart and remade him at Sandhurst and Aldershot. This was something feral, a creature of pure survival.

It launched itself at Sherlock with a roar, and he went down like a blade of grass. Strong fists tightened around his throat. Not knowing what else to do, he bent his knee and aimed a good shot at the gonads. But the beast that was definitely not John seemed impervious. The thumbs pressed down on his windpipe. He could feel the cartilage creaking. Any minute now, he thought. He knew John well enough to know that there was not much else he could do to overpower the man whose knee was now firmly planted in the centre of his chest. He had advanced training in hand-to-hand combat, after all, never mind all that direct battlefield experience. John never said much about his time in the army, but Mycroft had been helpful in obtaining copies of his records for Sherlock to peruse. It had been sobering reading. Now Sherlock was getting the benefit of his personal contribution to the national defence budget. He would have been more impressed if he hadn't been in the process of being throttled by the recipient of the training he had paid for with his taxes. There was only one chance left. If he could just manage to use his voice. It was a last hope, but-

'John?' He came out as a half-strangled gasp. 'John?'

'John? It's me. It's Sherlock.'

'John?' Black spots beginning to smother his vision. Pain in his throat. No air. No air. 'John? Please? Please?'

'Please?' Barely a whisper now.

'John?'

It was like being hit by lightning. A jolt through the body of the man on top of him. A jolt that threw John back across the room, slamming into the chest of drawers, scrambling backwards against it, kicking and clawing to get away, eyes wide with horror.

For a moment, Sherlock was too stunned, too starved of oxygen to move. He grabbed at his throat, and tried to get up, his head spinning. Then he saw John's eyes, John's face. He sat up, reaching out, moving towards him.

'No!' the doctor screamed. 'Don't come near me! Don't!'

But Sherlock wasn't afraid any more. He could see the man he knew back behind those dilated eyes. No matter how terrified he was, this was John, his own John.

He held his hand out, a gentle invitation. 'It's okay, John. It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you-' His voice came out hoarse, broken.

'I nearly killed you!' John screeched.

'No, no, you would never have killed me, John. I know you. You couldn't hurt me. Not me.' Making what was left of his voice as gentle, as coaxing as he could. The room spinning less now, manageable. He inched closer. John cringed away.

'It's alright, John. I'm here. I won't let them hurt you. You're safe now. I won't let them hurt you ever again.'

'There was…there was…'

'Tell me. It's okay. You can tell me.'

'An Afghan. Trying to kill me.'

'Yes, John. He's gone now. And I'm here. And I won't let him hurt you ever again.'

It was the blast, he realised, looking at those stricken eyes. It must have reignited all his memories. A full-blown flash-back.

Something happened inside Sherlock's chest, as if his heart was twisting, being wrung out like a wet flannel. The pain was indescribable. Am I having a heart attack, he wondered. No, concentrate. This is John. This is important.

The man was huddling against the bottom drawer now, whimpering. Sherlock inched closer, arm still outstretched.

'John? It's okay now, my love, it's over.'

He had no idea where the word came from, but it seemed to have an immediate effect, as if a switch had been flipped inside the doctor's head. He threw himself at Sherlock again, and the detective had to use every ounce of strength left in his battered frame not to flinch away. But this was different. John's face crashed into his belly, arms flung around his waist, and he lay there, hanging on like a drowning man, sobbing hysterically.

'Help me! For God's sake, help me!'

Sherlock grasped his shoulders and pulled him in, wrapping his arms around the shuddering body, and rocking backwards and forwards for no other reason than that it felt right. Safe. They were both afraid. There was no one else. They needed each other. And between them, Sherlock felt certain they could work it out.

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><p><em>Tomorrow, John faces up to the consequences of his relapse...<em>


	3. Chapter 3

**The Case of the Cuddle Chapter 3**

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed and favourited this story. Please keep your responses coming, I guzzle your reviews, and they inspire me to do more.

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><p>Waking up in Sherlock's arms was one of John's favourite things in life, he decided. It was only the second time he'd done it, but he found himself praying for endless repetition.<p>

His eyes were so swollen that they creaked when he tried to open them. There was a metallic taste in his mouth, and his gut felt like it had been scoured out with wire wool. All the familiar signs of emotional trauma. Then the reality of the previous night burst into his head, and he was hit with a surge of shame and horror.

He had tried to kill Sherlock.

It didn't matter that he didn't know what he was doing at the time. It didn't matter that he had been deluded and blind with terror. The point was that he was a danger to everybody around him.

He dragged himself upright and sat on the edge of the bed. Sherlock groaned his name, reached out, but the doctor flinched away.

'What?' Sherlock sat up, rubbing his eyes. 'John?'

'You should probably call Sarah and ask her to book me in at Ryfield Mental Hospital,' he said, his voice rough and gravelly from all the screaming.

'Why would I do that?'

'I tried to kill you last night,' John snapped. 'Does it not occur to you that that is not a safe quality to have in a flatmate?'

Sherlock gave a derisory snort.

'I'm serious, Holmes! I'm dangerous.'

'Not to me.'

'I tried to kill you.'

'Yes, but you didn't realise it was me, and as soon as you did, you stopped.'

'Next time, I might not realise till its too late.'

'I sincerely doubt that will be possible.'

'How can you be so sure? You can't trust me! _I_ can't trust me!

'There is a simple solution to this, John.'

'Yes, section* me.'

'Rather drastic, and something of an overreaction. No, the solution is simple, easy to implement, and cheaper for the NHS.'

John rubbed his hand over his face. 'Come on then, out with it.'

'I shall sleep up here.'

Now he turned around and looked at Sherlock. The detective had slouched back against the padded headboard, his hands folded in his lap. He must have been hot in the night because he had shed his shirt and was naked from the waist up, but was still wearing his usual well-tailored trousers below. John found himself distracted by the smoothness of his skin, the sinewy shape of his torso. He tried to concentrate.

'And this will stop me throttling you _how_?'

'You know that I sleep less than you. Substantially less, in fact. And that I am a much lighter sleeper. I will easily detect when you start to experience a nightmare and will be able to wake you before it reaches the critical stage of hallucination.' He shrugged. 'Simple, but effective, as I say.'

'You can't be awake all of the time,' John sighed.

'No plan is 100% fool proof.'

'You only need to fail to wake once for me to throttle you!'

'John, it is clear that you have relapsed as a result of the bomb experience, and that it would be wise to seek professional help. I do not disagree with that. I am simply offering you a means by which you need be less fearful of the sleep which you so desperately need.'

John shook his head slowly, staring into those slanted blue eyes. 'Why are you doing this?'

'Because what I saw in this room last night was the most terrible thing I have ever seen in my entire life. I can't let you go on suffering like that. I just can't.'

They stared at one another. John swallowed. His throat hurt. Why does my throat hurt so much, he wondered. And then he realised. It would be the lump in it, that's why.

'You're so tired, John. You've been through so much. Let me help you,' Sherlock said gently, holding out a welcoming hand.

'Would there be cuddles involved?' John croaked, taking it and allowing himself to be gently folded against the smooth, warm chest.

'I think we can probably manage a few, don't you?'

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><p>*For those readers who have never heard this expression, British law allows for an individual who is deemed in psychiatric distress by two qualified doctors to be committed to hospital care for their own protection, and the protection of society. This can be done against their will if necessary. Because it is done under a particular section of the Mental Health Act, it is referred to as 'being sectioned'.<p>

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><p><em>Tomorrow, waking up and cuddling together leads to an unexpected revelation...<em>


	4. Chapter 4

**The Case of the Cuddle Chapter 4**

Dear all, thank you again for all your lovely comments and favourites, please keep them coming as things are about to get very hairy here. I hope you like it, but I'm not sure that 'like' is quite the right word.

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><p>Warmth, and sweet morning breath. John had not had a nightmare in three weeks. Of course, he was not sure how much his trips to the army psychiatrist were helping, but he was pretty sure that waking with Sherlock, and more importantly, sleeping beside Sherlock, was the root cause of the cure.<p>

The detective had been right of course. John no longer feared sleep. But he looked forward most of all to waking up. Waking up like this, with that long body curled round his, radiating gentle heat, slender thighs tucked under his legs like a human chair, arms twined jealously around his chest, gentle gusts of expiration on the nape of his neck. Sherlock was always the last to go to sleep, but that invariably meant that he was also the last to wake, which allowed John lengthy, delicious spans of time to bask in the glory of these simple moments of togetherness.

'I've found an anchor,' he explained to the psychiatrist, Dr Prebble, a sharp-featured little man with a shiny pate and heavy, horn-rimmed spectacles. 'It's as if I have been drifting without a rudder or engines all my life, and now I've got an anchor, something that is holding me still and safe against the storm. Something to steady me, something to hang onto.'

'Some_one_,' Prebble pointed out.

'Yes,' John said.

And then, 'He saved my life.'

'From what you've told me, it sounds just as much that you saved his.'

'Maybe.'

Sherlock sighed. John knew he was starting to wake. He didn't want to move, didn't want this perfect moment to end. He hated it when Sherlock let go of him, and the long hours of the day when the few feet by which they were physically separated felt like the distance from London to Vladivostok. He was beginning to be aware of a physical craving for Sherlock's body, a need to shelter in the lee of that tall, lanky frame, a need that bore into him like a drill. At night he would sink into the bed with delirious relief, let the darkness embrace him, knowing that in a few short hours that warm body would slide between the sheets beside him, enfolding him in comfort and tenderness.

'Can you be addicted to cuddles?' John had asked Prebble at their most recent session.

He shrugged. 'You can be addicted to any behaviour. The question is whether the addiction is damaging or not. What does it give you when you accept Sherlock's physical affection?'

'I suppose it makes me feel he needs me.'

'That gives him the power in the relationship. What does feeling dependent on him give you?'

'I feel safe, looked after.'

'And?'

'I abdicate control over my own wellbeing. I get to blame him if things go wrong.'

'Do you fear they will go wrong?

'They invariably do. Sherlock isn't an easy man.'

'You said he was a sociopath.'

'His diagnosis, not mine. I know he is capable of empathy. I've seen him display it.'

'And yet you continually expect him to hurt you.'

'You would call that a victim mentality, I suppose.'

'What would you call it?'

'Realistic.'

Prebble smiled. 'Is your dependence on him healthy, given his psychological profile?'

'Is his dependence on me healthy, given mine?'

Dependence, John thought now, recalling the conversation while Sherlock went through his unconscious waking-up habits like a cat circling on a bed. The flattening of the palm against John's heart. The nuzzling into the back of his neck. The little, fluttering sighs. The slight wriggling of the hips, a resettling of the pelvis. And the last of them, that delicious purring noise in the base of his throat when he was almost awake, but still clinging to the velvet world of dreams. All of these minute actions so precious to John, so wonderful. Is this dependence, John wondered as Sherlock made his little whirring noise, or interdependence?

This morning, John decided he would turn over, so that when Sherlock actually woke, when he opened his eyes, John would be looking back at him. It took some squirming, and required him to lie on his left side, which was always a problem given his damaged shoulder. Sherlock growled a protest, but when he opened his eyes, his face dawned into a smile.

'Good morning,' he rumbled.

'Sleep well?'

'Mmmmm.' Sherlock pulled John against him, buried his face in his chest. 'You?'

'Fine.'

'No bad dreams?'

'Nope.'

'Told you.'

'Be a little more magnanimous, clever clogs.'

Sherlock let out a sigh. 'Do I have to? It's too early in the morning for magnanimity.' He blinked lazily, like a cat. John couldn't help reaching out to stroke his sleep-tousled curls, and Sherlock responded, butting his head against John's palm to encourage him. 'Mmm, nice.'

'Look at me,' John said.

Sherlock lifted his head. 'What?'

'Just something Prebble said last week.'

It had been a carefully planned attack on the part of the psychiatrist, he was sure.

'And what about increasing your level of intimacy? Have your thought about where this interdependent relationship is heading in the longer term? Will your embraces become sexual? How will you feel if they do? Are you willing to risk your heart, John, for such short-term comfort?'

The doctor looked down into the eyes of the detective in his arms, and wondered about that. He'd had no qualms about his answer to Prebble at the time. Now he wanted to test himself. And Sherlock. Because if Sherlock was repelled, then he knew the answer to the earlier question of whether John was safe in this mercurial man's hands.

He reached out and pressed his lips to Sherlock's.

There was a moment of hesitation, but he was not shoved roughly away. Instead, the pliant mouth under his seemed uncertain as to what to do. John withdrew, a little puzzled. Sherlock was looking up at him, a little crease between his brows. Worried, then.

'I'm sorry, did I overstep-'

'No! I mean – do it again, would you?'

John leaned in a second time. It was strange, kissing another man. He'd never done it before. It shouldn't be any different, at least in theory, but it was, and he couldn't quite put his finger on why. Was it the broadness of Sherlock's mouth, or the width of his lips? Of course, the stubble had to come into it, but then what? Perhaps the fact that Sherlock did not seem to be reacting.

'What's wrong?'

'I – I don't know how.' There was something in his eyes that told John this was not one of Sherlock's little wind-ups. Never been kissed, John realised.

'Do you want to?'

'Oh, yes,' Sherlock breathed, gazing up at him. '_So_ much.'

A little tremor passed through John at the words, an electric thrill.

'Just relax,' he whispered. And tried again. This time it was perfect. Sherlock's mouth, so soft under his, following his lead as he caressed, explored. The taste of Sherlock, garlic and Ovaltine and cherry flavoured boiled sweets. Sherlock's tongue, finally; tentative, then excited, delving.

Heat bloomed up inside his body. Sherlock grabbed his waist and pulled him over, on top. He took his weight on his elbows as the long, sensitive hands slid down his back from shoulder blades to lumbar. Their legs slithered together. John pressed his hips down, an involuntary grind. Sherlock's leg bent up, raising his thigh so that John could thrust against it. Bellies and chests rubbing together. Desire writhed in John's gut, leaching out down the backs of his legs like cold fire, to the soles of his feet. His itching fingers massaged down Sherlock's body, finding the hard nubs of his nipples through the thin cotton of his tee-shirt, and rubbing. Sherlock's moans igniting more need. Now John was really hard. Panting, thrusting his tongue deep into the open, receptive mouth, he edged his own thigh up. And that was when he felt it. Against his hip. Softness. A vacancy.

There was nothing going on.

He pulled away, looked down at the man under him in shock. Pupils dilated, cheeks and chest flushed, pulse racing, heart pounding, and all that besides that wonderful, voluptuous mouth gulping like the maw of a hungry chick. Everything above the waist was happening just as it should. Sherlock had even wrapped one leg around John's.

Sherlock blinked up at him, realised what had happened, and suddenly pushed him away, scrambling for the edge of the bed.

Dazed, John said, 'Sherlock, what is it? What have I done?'

The detective was shaking. John reached out to touch him, but he flinched away.

'Talk to me,' he begged.

'It's always been like this. As long as I can remember. Nothing. It's dead down there.'

John's head was spinning. 'But- but-' he stuttered. 'Have you seen-'

'I've seen every bloody doctor there is!' Sherlock almost screamed, launching himself onto his feet and starting to pace. 'I've had every bloody test, I've been probed and poked from pillar to post, and nothing's made any different. No sexual responses. I am inert.'

'But you do have sexual responses,' John told him. 'I just witnessed them!'

Sherlock didn't seem to be listening. 'It's nothing wrong down there, oh, no,' he snarled, and jabbed brutally at his temple. 'It's all up here, they tell me. I'm missing some vital connection! So now you see. Sally is right. I really am a _freak_!'

'Sherlock, you're not a freak. At least no more than I am.'

'Would you still want me if I was a woman?' Sherlock's eyes were taking on a slightly manic look. 'There are places, you know. In Thailand. I'd do it for you, John. I'd do anything for you.'

'Christ, Sherlock! I'm not having you mutilate yourself for me!' John was appalled.

'Well, might was well hack the bloody thing off! Fat lot of use it is to me like this!' He was in tears now, wretched with craving and grief for something he had never even had. John grabbed him and dragged him down onto his lap, encircling him tightly in his arms.

'I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I should never have –'

'It's not you, it's me! I'm the one! I'm the freak!'

'You are _not_ a freak!' John almost shouted. 'You are beautiful and perfect just as you are, and I love you.'

Suddenly they were staring at one another, dumb with shock.

John realised it was his turn to make this alright, just as Sherlock had done after his dreadful nightmare.

'Yes. It's true. I love you. So we're both damaged? So what? I love you. And I believe that you love me. And when you touch me I know everything will be alright. We'll manage somehow. But this is my fault. I pushed the boundaries. I'm sorry. I should have given you some space. I should have-'

'Don't. Please.' Sherlock stroked his cheek, calming a little.

'Tell me what I can do to make it right?' John pleaded.

Sherlock pressed his face into the curve of John's neck. 'Just hold me,' he whispered. 'If that's all I can have, then it'll be enough.'

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><p>When John got back from work that night, the flat was in darkness. It was not until he switched on the landing light that he saw the figure in the shadowy living room, silhouetted against the orange haze of the street lamps. A shape sitting upright in the armchair, square and erect in the silent dark, long pale hands stretched out on the arms.<p>

'Sherlock?' John peered into the shadows. He couldn't see the detective's face, only its chiselled shape.

'It's come back, John. The darkness. The memories have come back for me.'

* * *

><p><em>Tomorrow, the terrible truth...<em>


	5. Chapter 5

**The Case of the Cuddle Chapter 5**

**Warning:** Contains references to extremely violent rape and child sexual abuse. _ If you have any issues at all relating to these, please, please don't read._ You could probably skip to the next chapter and still get the guist. I have no idea why I had to write this, and I'm praying you'll make it through this part and come with me into the next stage. You will probably be glad to hear that this story is proving to be a bit of a 'Topsy' - it just grows and grows, and I'm working on a happy ending for all concerned right now. Have hope. Please?

**A/N**: To everyone, a deep thank you for reading and reviewing. I know this is difficult material. Also, Dear Kida, since I can't email you, thank you for all your wonderful reviews. I'm so touched that you are sticking with this, and I'm usualy the same about not reading the violent, angsty stuff. I can hold your hand digitally if you like? :-)

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><p>'I was eleven the first time.<p>

'Prep school had been alright. The boys there weren't big enough to hold you down. But then, boarding school. Big school. It started as soon as I got there. They could see I was different. Not just clever. Different. They hated me for it. They came at night. Sometimes in twos, maybe threes. Sometimes more. One after another. A core group, but always someone to hold me down. Someone to hold a hand over my mouth to stop me screaming for help. Not that anybody would have come. No one cared. It went on all term. The things they did. Not just themselves. Anything they could push into me. Rulers, hockey sticks, cricket stumps, bottles. And in the day, they were as sweet as pie, like butter wouldn't melt in their mouths.

'In the last week of term, just before Christmas, two older boys came in while they were doing it. Sixth formers. Bullies. Everyone was afraid of them. They said they'd heard we were having a party and they wanted to join in. I was eleven. They were fully grown. The pain was so dreadful that I passed out. When I came to in the morning there was blood in the bed. So much blood.

'I was two weeks in hospital. There were operations. Blood transfusions. Apparently I was lucky not to have bled to death. After Christmas, the headmaster wrote to Mummy and said he thought I shouldn't come back, that I was a disruptive influence. So she sent me somewhere else, a progressive school for high achievers.

'One of the boys I'd known wrote to me later on. He told me the sixth formers had both gone to Cambridge. No one had been punished because no one had owned up. Or told the masters who was responsible. They were all too scared of those older boys, you see. Scared it would happen to them. I didn't blame them, not really. But I knew it was all over for me. After that, I was dead. Inert. I felt nothing. Nothing till you came.'

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><p>After he had persuaded Sherlock to take a sedative, he rang Mycroft.<p>

'I need you to come as soon as you can.'

'I'm really very busy, John. I can't just drop the Arab Spring-'

'It's Sherlock. I'm really worried.'

Silence on the other end.

'Ten minutes.'

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><p>The older brother sat on the sofa in his overcoat, staring into the far distance. John set a mug of tea down on the coffee table in front of him.<p>

'So, now you know,' Mycroft said. 'I wondered how long it would take him to tell you.'

'He said he's never told anyone. He thought he'd forgotten.'

'You know no-one else affects him the way you do, John. It was only a matter of time before he had to face it.'

'You knew about it all along?'

He sighed. 'I was at Cambridge at the time. I came home for Christmas and found him …like that. I can't tell you how dreadful it was, how awful I felt. And Mummy's reaction. She told him he'd provoked them. She kept saying it was his own fault.'

'Oh, Jesus,' John groaned, pressing his hand over his mouth so he couldn't vomit his flaming rage out. It was this man's mother, after all.

'I know. I tried, but he wouldn't tell me who it was. No names. If he would just give me the names, John.' It was almost a plea. He turned tortured eyes on the doctor. 'Just tell me what to do, and I'll do it. Anything. Just say.'

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><p><em>Tomorrow, Sherlock and John face up to what has happened...<em>


	6. Chapter 6

**The Case of the Cuddle Chapter 6**

**Warning:** references to rape and child sexual abuse.

Thank you to everyone who commented for your support. You've all been wonderful. This is a little snuggly interlude. I'm still writing episodes - at this rate its going to go on till Christmas!

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><p>Sherlock was waking. John watched him purr and stretch, watched his hand reach out across the sheet and find it empty and cold. His eyes opened. He lifted his head, looked around, and finally saw John sitting on the chair he had placed by the door, about 3am, after Mycroft had finally left.<p>

'What are you doing there?' His voice was husky.

'I didn't want you to – feel threatened.'

'I wouldn't.'

'I've had enough flashbacks myself, Sherlock. I know you can't be sure of that.'

Sherlock propped himself up on his elbow and looked at the alarm clock. Then at John. The doctor knew he must look dreadful. He had been awake most of the night, first with Mycroft, then watching over his flatmate. It was hard to tell which of them was more groggy, Sherlock after the sedative, or sleep-deprived John.

'You've been sitting there half the night, haven't you?'

'I didn't know what else to do.' John rubbed his hand over his grizzled features.

'What did Mycroft say?'

Of course, why was he surprised that Sherlock would know of his brother's visit? He would have worked it out immediately.

'He was a wreck. He feels responsible.'

Sherlock growled something inaudible.

'Is this what all your bickering is about? Come on, you know he wasn't there, he couldn't have stopped them.'

Sherlock had the grace to look ashamed.

'He wants to talk to you, as soon as you can face it. He wants names. I think he wants revenge.'

Sherlock blinked and then looked impressed. 'Really?'

'I shouldn't like to be in their shoes, is all I can say,' John sighed. 'Will you? Talk to him, I mean? Not till you are ready, of course –'

'Yes.'

'Because I think it would really help you both.'

'Yes.' Sherlock flopped back on the pillow. 'What did Sarah say?'

Of course he would know that John rang Sarah too. What else would a doctor do in such a situation but ring his colleague?

'She gave me the name of a good child sex abuse counsellor.'

'Oh God, do I have to?'

'You're making me go to a PTSD therapist.'

'Yes, but-'

'Sherlock, I want you to get well, but I can't help you much myself. This is way beyond my training. You need a specialist.'

'If I must,' Sherlock grumbled.

'I just don't know what to do,' John told him, realising that he sounded as if he was whining. 'I want to help you but I don't know how.'

'I know how,' Sherlock said.

'What? Just say. Anything.'

'May I have a hug?'

John hesitated. 'Are you sure? I don't want to freak you out or anything-'

'Shut up and get over here.'

John was stiff from sitting up all night. His leg spasmed as he got up, and he had to shuffle over to the bed. He sat down on the duvet awkwardly, and put his arms around Sherlock.

'You're freezing,' Sherlock said, pulling away from him. He tugged back the duvet. 'Get in.'

'Sherlock, that's not-'

'I need you, John. You're no good to me exhausted and frozen.'

John dragged his heavy limbs into the bed and lay down. He was not sure quite who was hugging who, but Sherlock snuggled against his chest, pressing his cheek into the brushed cotton shirt John had shrugged on yesterday morning and was still wearing.

'Cuddles are the answer to everything,' Sherlock murmured.

'Not quite,' John smiled settling back.

'Well, everything that tea can't fix.'

'Idiot.'

'Mmmm.'

They lay there for a long time, John staring at the ceiling, listening to Sherlock's steady heartbeat, feeling the warmth of the long, lean body suffusing his limbs.

He pressed a kiss into Sherlock's curls. 'Sometimes I feel like, if we could just stay like this, together, safe in bed, then there would be no more problems. Everything would be solved.'

The detective nodded. 'We'll get through this. I don't know how, but we will.'

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><p><em>Tomorrow, Mycroft sets out for revenge..<em>


	7. Chapter 7

**The Case of the Cuddle Chapter 7**

Enormous thank you again to everyone for reviewing with the milk of human kindness. Evenlode's special gold stars go to **power0girl, Mirith Griffin, Bookwoman17NerdyMom, Kida, WitchRavenFox, raven612, dancinggnome, cantsaymylastname, Reynardetta, RosieD, Rose, and tardisinthesgc**. You are all transcendentally wonderful. And oif course, need I say that the more you review, the more I seem to write?

**Warning**: contains graphic references to male rape and child sexual abuse.

Okay, are you ready? Because, as Gorgeous George would say, '_This_ is gonna get messeh!'

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><p>Mist hovered over the golf course. Mycroft was sitting in his private car. He had driven himself down to Richmond in the Aston, alone with his thoughts. This was not work, it was personal, so he had taken a rare day off. Now he couldn't seem to prize his gloved hands from the wheel.<p>

A dark Ford saloon slid into the parking space next to him, and in his rear view mirror he saw a police estate with blue and orange regulation stripes pull up behind. His passenger door opened and Lestrade slid in, closing it with a soft, expensive crump behind him. He huffed, his breath clouding around him.

'All set?'

Mycroft nodded and glanced in the rear view mirror again.

'Surrey Constabulary,' Lestrade told him. 'Our jurisdiction doesn't reach out this far.'

There were two burly uniforms in stab vests in the front seats. Mycroft could see the spikes of their radios protruding over their shoulders. In the saloon, a man and a woman sat, making what seemed to be business-like conversation over some clipboards, doing the last minute paperwork. Nobody was here to enjoy themselves.

Lestrade was looking at him with his kind expression, one that Mycroft was aware he used rarely. He laid a hand gently over that of the elder Holmes and eased it from the steering wheel. And held it.

'You don't have to do this, you know,' he said. 'We can take care of it. You don't have to see him at all.'

'I need to, Greg,' Mycroft croaked. 'I owe it to Sherlock. I let him down once, I won't do it again.'

'It wasn't your fault,' Lestrade told him, ignoring the rolled eyes. 'Yes, I know, but you seem to think you could have done something to stop it.'

'I _should_ have.'

'It was down to the school to protect him. And his mother. It was them that failed him, not you.'

Mycroft's sigh caught for a second in his throat. 'We _all_ failed him.' He stole a look at Lestrade, who squeezed his hand, seeing that this was not an argument he was ever going to win. 'Are you ready?'

'When you are.'

Mycroft twisted to open his door. 'Then we had better get on.'

* * *

><p>Peter Lasky and Michael Hatchard had just reached the nineteenth hole. They were business partners who liked to bunk off occasionally and snatch a game of golf. It had been a pleasant, if chilly morning's game and Lasky was crowing over the impressive margin of his win.<p>

'Bit off form today, Mike,' he grinned, taking the gin and tonic proffered by the waitress – Hatchard was paying, as losers do.

'Can't think what's got into me,' Mike complained. 'Slept badly last night, that must be it. Stiff back. The swing's not right.'

'Come on, a bad workman and all that.'

'I'm having an off day. Besides, Harry's been playing up again at school. They called Emma and I in yesterday. One of those firm talks. I really don't know what's got into him. He's not a bad lad.'

'Why don't you and Emma bring him over to us at the weekend,' Lasky suggested. 'Let me have a chat with him. Maybe I can find out what's wrong.'

'Thanks, Peter. You're always so good with him.'

The ripple of shocked silence alerted the two men, and they turned around to see what was bothering the other members. It was a surprise to see four soberly dressed individuals entering the bar, followed by two substantial coppers in full rig.

'Uh-oh,' Lasky hissed under his breath to his friend. 'Someone's for it.' It took him a moment to cotton on to the fact that it was him they were approaching.

'Forgotten to pay your bar tab again, Lasky?' Some wag by the window called out, a joke to break the embarrassment.

Lasky straightened himself up with all the hauteur of the upper middle classes dealing with the inconvenience of the law. 'Can I help you?'

The tall, skinny one with the large nose stepped forward whilst the others hung back.

'I don't suppose you remember me, do you, Peter?' he said.

'Should I?' Lasky frowned. Something about the man was faintly familiar, his pale, watchful eyes, his sardonic expression, but he couldn't place him. The man made him nervous, though, and he was aware that Hatchard had almost imperceptibly begun to inch away.

'I don't suppose so. My name is Holmes. I was somewhat above you at school. But you might remember my little brother, Sherlock? You and James Nicholls raped him when he was eleven?'

A hiss of horror went round the room.

'How dare you!' Lasky shouted at him, not meaning to, but his gut had already clenched. He knew what was coming now, but was determined to brazen it out.

Holmes smiled a passive smile, the smile of a panther who has already caught its prey and is poised to enjoy tormenting it.

'Oh, Peter, please do not try to deny it. Perhaps I may introduce you to my friends? Detective Inspector Lestrade of the Metropolitan Police, and Detective Sergeants Rankin and Ahmad of the Surrey Constabulary. They are very efficient. Their colleagues are currently at your home, seizing your computer and informing your wife of your nefarious activities – by the way, I'm sure that when she has finished vomiting, she will be contacting her solicitor regarding divorce and such like. And they have already intercepted the photographs you uploaded to your little friends on the internet of you raping Mr Hatchard's son, Harry.'

'What?' Hatchard's head snapped up in horror.

'I have to admit, I'm shocked by how very far from clever you've been. Leaving the faces so clearly visible. Not very bright. Or was it merely arrogance? You simply assumed that you would get away with it again, as you have done for so long.'

Hatchard launched himself at Lasky's throat with a scream, but Lestrade was suddenly there, in between, pushing the enraged father back. 'Now, then, Mr Hatchard, he's not worth you getting arrested too, is he?'

Mycroft kept talking, impervious.

'On the whole, I wasn't shocked by your hubris, I have to admit. But your son too? Your own flesh and blood? So easy to identify? Really, I was amazed. And to film it repeatedly? That just wasn't very bright at all, now, was it?

'I'm a very powerful man, Lasky. Extremely powerful. I could have had you removed from circulation; deleted, shall we say? But I prefer to see you suffer the way you've made Sherlock and all those other boys suffer. I know quite a few very tough gentlemen inside. I'm sure they will be delighted to hear all about you. I should think you might last –' he thought about it – 'hmmm, perhaps three weeks at most before they cut your bollocks off? Yes, I think I might even go so far as to place a bet. Lestrade can run a book, how would that be?' He treated himself to an evil smile. 'Just a little tip, though. You might want to get your teeth removed by a proper dentist before you begin your sentence. I understand there is a dearth of analgesics in prison washrooms, and those gentlemen prefer not to have any, ahem, barriers to their pleasures. I'm only sorry I couldn't have found you earlier, but it wasn't to be. Such a shame. But I promise to come and see you regularly once you are in prison. Just to make sure you are having a thoroughly unpleasant time.'

When the uniforms took Lasky by his upper arms, his legs buckled under him, but nobody really cared. Mycroft certainly didn't. He was too busy sending John Watson a text message:

_Mission stage 1 complete. M_

* * *

><p><em>Tomorrow, revenge mission stage 2...<br>_


	8. Chapter 8

**The Case of the Cuddle Chapter 8**

**Warning:** Contains graphic references to male rape and child sexual abuse.

Mycroft, in his brilliance, knows there is nothing he can do to a man that is crueller than that which a man does to himself...

* * *

><p>The Nicholls household was in a quiet, Edwardian suburb of Reading. Mycroft waited patiently outside while Lestrade went in, accompanied this time by a representative of the Thames Valley force. Mycroft preferred not to see the face of the wife or those of her two pretty daughters. He'd had James Nicholls thoroughly checked out, and he was a model citizen. What was more, it appeared he'd had no contact with Lasky since they left school. That inclined him to be a little more lenient.<p>

Nicholls pulled onto the tessellated bricks of the drive in a shiny new Jag, and was fishing about on the back seat for his briefcase when he noticed Mycroft. He immediately got out. The two men stared at each other across the car's roof.

'I've been waiting for you, Mycroft. ' His face was drawn. There was something hunted in his eyes. 'All these years. I knew you'd find me in the end.'

Mycroft looked back at him, trying to appear impassive.

'How is he?' Nicholls asked.

The elder Homes shrugged. 'Surviving.'

'It won't do any good to tell you I'm sorry, I suppose?'

'No.'

'Well, I am. Just so you know.' Nicholls slammed the car door and walked around the bonnet to face Mycroft.

'Yes,' he replied, examining the solicitor in that prescient Holmesian way. 'I think you probably are.'

'I was horrified when I heard how badly hurt he was. Peter and I had this huge row.'

'You must have known how bad it was,' Mycroft pointed out. 'You left him bleeding. Haemorrhaging, in fact. You knew how badly injured he was, but you still left him like that, and never called for help.'

'You don't understand. I was scared,' Nicholls said, as if that made a difference. 'I threatened to turn Peter in. He said if I did, he'd see I went down for it as well. I was too afraid of him to talk. I was always afraid of him. That's why I went along with it in the first place. Fear.'

He swallowed and went on, desperate to unburden himself after all these years.

'I had no idea what he meant to do when we went in there, I swear to you. I thought we were just going to scare them up a bit. I knew he did some stuff to the younger boys sometimes, but I didn't really know any details. It wasn't something I was into. But we were drunk and he threatened me. So I did it. We did it together. Both of us at once. It was hideous. I was sick afterwards.' He shook his head. 'I remember thinking that it would have been better if Sherlock had screamed. Peter kept trying to make him. It was as if he wanted him to, like he'd get off on it. But Sherlock wouldn't. He was so brave. You should be proud of him.'

'I am.'

'He must have suffered very much.'

'Yes. He has.'

'I'm sorry.' He looked up at his front door, at the warm pools of light spilling onto the drive, so welcoming. 'What are you going to do?'

'The police are already with your wife,' Mycroft said, feeling almost sorry for this pathetic man. 'I don't know if there will be a prosecution. It would be your word against Sherlock's and I doubt he would be willing, let alone able, to testify. Lasky, however, is already in custody for subsequent crimes, so you may be called to testify yourself.'

Nicholls stared at him in horror. 'You mean, he-'

'If you had stood up to him, if you'd had the courage to say something at the time, you might have saved several, perhaps dozens of other boys.'

Mycroft watched as Nicholls doubled over, clutching at his stomach, and let out a wail.

'I wish I could offer you some comfort, but I have none.'

'No,' Nicholls sobbed eventually. 'I don't deserve any. Especially not from you.'

Then the front door opened, and Lestrade appeared. 'Mr Nicholls?'

Nicholls struggled upright and turned to Mycroft with pleading eyes. 'Just tell him I'm so, so sorry,' he said, as the DCI steered him inside.

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><p><em>Tomorrow, news arrives at Baker Street...<em>


	9. Chapter 9

**The Case of the Cuddle Chapter 9**

Apologies for the late arrival of this morning's angst train, I had to go to the dentist and I was pretty high on the anaesthetic when I got back, so I though I'd better leave posting until I wasn't giggling like a maniac. Anyway, thank you once again for all your reviews, and some important points to remember. I think I may have to add an extra chapter in after this one to take account of what **raven612** points out is the healing process. I had skipped an important bit there. So what follows may be logical conclusion? I'm not sure. Its certainly a bridge to the next part fo the story...

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><p>Mycroft sat in the Aston on the kerb for a long time, though he had no idea how long, before he managed to fumble out his phone and send a text to John.<p>

_Mission stage 2 complete. M_

Lestrade emerged from the house. He strode up and leant in, resting his palms on the car door sill as the electric window whirred down.

'You okay?'

'You wouldn't be kind enough to drive me home, would you, Greg? I don't think I'm fit to be on the road.'

''Course,' Lestrade smiled, his dark eyes shining.

* * *

><p>The mail flap on the door rattled at 10.55pm two days later. Mrs Hudson thumped out into the hall and picked up the envelope on the mat.<p>

'John?' She called up the stairs. 'John? Someone's dropped in a letter for you!'

The doctor appeared on the landing. 'At this time of night?'

'Don't ask me,' Mrs Hudson said, holding it out to him as she adjusted her dressing gown irritably.

'Mycroft,' came a familiar voice from the flat's lounge. John trotted down and took the letter from his landlady's hand.

'What it is?' She peered over his shoulder as he slid his finger under the flap and ripped the envelope apart. He frowned as he scanned the sheet that was inside.

'Somebody died,' he told her, and mounted the stairs two at a time, leaving her behind, bewildered.

Sherlock was on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket. He had taken to behaving like an invalid since his memories returned, and John had let him, because pampering him made him feel he was doing something useful. He held out a thin hand and took the sheet.

* * *

><p>STOP PRESS<p>

READING ECHO FOR PUBLICATION ON THURSDAY 21ST OCTOBER

HEADLINE: LOCAL SOLICITOR FOUND DEAD

Respected local solicitor and well-known charity fund-raiser, James Nicholls has been found dead at his home, Thames Valley Police said last night. Mr Nicholls, 42, who last year organised events that raised more than £200,000 for the children's abuse charity, Childline, is thought to have hung himself. Sources close to the family suggest that Mr Nicholls' wife, Anne, a social worker, had filed for divorce earlier in the week. A post-mortem will be carried out tomorrow, but Police are not looking for any other suspects in connection with the death.

Obituary page 27

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><p><em>Tomorrow, a scratch chapter boffed off in an hour or two before we move on to weightier things...<em>


	10. Chapter 10

**The Case of the Cuddle Chapter 9**

**A/N:** What was planned as a quickie chapter to be knocked off this afternoon in order bridge a narrative gap has morphed into two. What follows may be a bit rough and less polished than my usual, but it needed to come out. Took a bit of a run up, though, so sorry for the delay everyone. Thank again for all your support. Please keep reviewing, as it keeps me writing!

**Warning:** mention of violent rape and bullying

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><p>'Oh, Dr Armstrong, I'm so sorry,' Sylvia wittered, wringing her hands. 'I just couldn't stop him!'<p>

'What are you talking about?'

'He's in there, Headmaster, that man, in your office, he just barged-'

'I'll deal with this, thank you,' he said, patting her on the shoulder. She was a dreadfully inefficient personal assistant, but a very kind person and good with the boys, and since he had inherited her from his predecessor, he didn't feel he could sack her. Besides, things were bad enough at the moment without major staff changes. They all had to stick together until this hideous Lasky business was over.

He tucked his copy of the Telegraph under his arm, strode into his office and shut the door.

'Good morning, I understand you wanted to see me,' he said, and then turned around.

A tall, impeccably dressed man was standing in the corner, deeply engrossed in the contents of the filing cabinets that held the boy's personal records, past and present.

'Hey, you can't do that!'

'Interesting,' the man said, not turning a hair. 'I've found myself but I can't seem to find Peter Lasky. Why is that, do you think?' He turned and held Armstrong's eyes with a stare so preternatural that anything thought of resistance went clean out of the headmaster's head.

'Are you with the police,' he finally managed to stumble.

'Oh, no,' the man smiled, and Dr Armstrong decided the smile was even worse that the stare. 'I'm far worse than that.'

He drew his hands from the filing drawer, long, slender, pale fingers, Armstrong noticed, and a signet ring worn on his little finger. He closed the drawer, stalked across the room and pulled an identification wallet from his pocket to flash at the headmaster. Confused, Armstrong saw little more than a few letters.

'MI5, MI6, Home Offi…'

It was worse than he had ever imagined. He sank into his chair. The visitor seemed to take this as an invitation, and folded his elegant form into the armchair in front of the fireplace, from where he could easily see the desk behind which the headmaster sat.

'What does MI6 want here?' Armstrong's voice had reduced to a dry rasp.

The man gave him what might be called an 'old-fashioned' look. 'Oh, please, Dr Armstrong, you and I both know that places like this are a grooming-ground for people of my profession.' He glanced at the front of the paper that Armstrong had dropped in the desk. 'Ah, yes, the Lasky case, another old boy. No doubt it is giving you some trouble at present?'

Armstrong swallowed.

'Yes, well, I'm sure the parents who have withdrawn their little darlings from your establishment will see the error of their ways extremely quickly.' The man sat back and made himself comfortable.

'What do you want?' Armstrong croaked.

The man steepled his fingers in a way that suggested it was habitual.

'In 1986, Peter Lasky and another boy, James Nicholls, committed a violent rape on a first year here. The boy in question nearly died. Your predecessor saw fit to cover the matter up. In fact, he all but expelled the victim, accusing him of being an unsettling influence on the other boys. All of which means that I am hardly surprised to find no record of it in your files.'

Armstrong nearly choked. 'That's horrific. I hope you realise I would never-'

The man held up his hand to stop the denial. 'I am well aware of your fine record in the school, Dr Armstrong. In fact, I know a lot about you. Pretty much everything, I am happy to say.'

A chilling smile spread across his face. Armstrong's gut turned over and twisted. He instantly knew beyond any doubt that this was so far from being a man who could be crossed that he was practically on a different continent. The spy raised an eyebrow, having apparently detected the realisation in Armstrong's features. He went on:

'You and I both have the same interests at heart: the wellbeing of the boys here. We both want to ensure they get the best and safest of educations available. Do we not?'

Armstrong nodded, gripping onto the arms of his chair so hard his knuckles turned white.

'Your predecessor, Dr McEvitt, cared more about the school's reputation. However, he is long since retired and dead – though quite which came first I was never able to judge, having had the distressing experience of being taught by him myself!'

This attempt at wit did nothing to relax Armstrong.

'I'm sorry to say that the sexual assault by Lasky and Nicholls was not the only occurrence in the school at the time. It transpires that the boy who was attacked had suffered an entire term of vicious sexual assaults every night by other boys – so far I have managed to track down twenty-two of them, but I estimate there may have been as many as thirty involved. I shall, of course, be paying each of them a personal visit in time, just to be sure they are keeping on, shall we say, the straight and narrow in their adult lives.

'Dr McEvitt's failure to punish Lasky resulted in his going on to rape and sexually abuse dozens of other children. As I am sure you have read. It is perfectly possible that similar laxness of punishment may have resulted in the moulding of other, equally depraved individuals. We want to avoid that in future, don't we, Dr Armstrong?'

Armstrong nodded stiffly.

'What I am advocating is that you should establish a zero-tolerance approach to bullying in all forms in your school. So many voices were not heard. This must not happen again. Even the slightest instance must receive the most aggressive response. Do I make myself clear?'

Armstrong nodded again.

'No doubt, your official statement to the press on the subject will make you a cheerleader amongst anti-bullying campaigners, and result in both you and the school being held up as paragons in the field of education. I am sure you will benefit enormously from taking such a stand.'

'Do I have a choice?' he finally managed.

The man frowned. 'On the whole, I think not. Don't you?'

'A culture of turning a blind eye cannot be allowed to stand, I'm sure you agree,' he went on, getting up and brushing a little fluff off his exquisite suit. 'I shall be watching with great interest.'

Armstrong struggled to his feet, desperate for the man to be out of his door as soon as possible. The spy came forward and looked into his eyes again, with that terrifying prescience.

'I have lived a complex life, Headmaster,' he said. 'I have met many people who have done evil and depraved things. On the whole, experience has taught me that people are not born evil, but become so by conditioning. With Peter Lasky I would definitely make an exception. I have never looked into eyes more cold and dead. I have seen to it, personally, that he is receiving just punishment, but I also know that he would not have become what he is today had he not had the effective collusion of those who refused to listen to his victims. I am sure you will hear those boys in your sleep from now on, Dr Armstrong. I am sure their cries will drive you to excel in the care of every child who attends this school in future.'

The man took Armstrong's cold, clammy hand in his, and shook it.

'Goodbye, Headmaster,' he said. 'I've enjoyed our little meeting. I shall look forward to seeing you again.'

And then he was gone.

Sylvia peeped around the door. 'Would you like your morning coffee now, Headmaster?'

'Go away,' Armstrong told her, shaking.

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><p><em>Tomorrow, the reality of Sherlock's flashbacks...<em>


	11. Chapter 11

**The Case of the Cuddle Chapter 11**

**Warning:** mention of child rape and severe trauma. If you have any issues relating to this, please, please don't read, you won't miss any real narrative if you skip onto the next part.

To everyone else, I know this is hard, but it is necessary to the building of our boys' relationship. And please review - your comments are keeping me going.

I would like to pay tribute to the dear correspondent who said 'every hurt kid should have a Mycroft.' So few children do. I hope we can all vow to be someone's Mycroft if it ever becomes necessary.

And I promise happies next week.

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><p>John had not wanted to do the shift at the surgery, but Sarah had called him, desperate. It was the height of flu season, several of the doctors had caught the bug, including herself, and half the nursing staff were down with the Norovirus to boot. She knew Sherlock's condition, and she would never have rung John if she'd had a choice, but even the locum agencies were struggling. In the event, he worked a thirteen hour shift, including two emergency call-outs, for which he was unlikely to get paid, to elderly patients with breathing difficulties. One was so bad he had to have her carted off in an ambulance immediately, and didn't expect her to last the night. It had generally been a bad day.<p>

He knew something was wrong as soon as he walked through the door at Baker Street. Mrs Hudson was out at her Saturday night Bingo, but the flat was eerily quiet. There were no lights on. Carefully, he opened the living room door and stepped through, knowing his form would be outlined against the landing light.

There was a slight whimper from under the gateleg table by the window.

John took a moment to collect himself. He had suffered from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder himself for over two years now, and had treated a number of patients with similar problems while still in the army. Yet never had he realised the effect of flashbacks on the sufferer until now.

With PTSD amongst soldiers it was easy to see. Men sank into reliving the experience of battle. It was a situation he knew well himself, so watching patients act and react in combat situations, even if they occurred solely in their heads, was nothing new. But seeing what a flashback did to Sherlock was another matter entirely. When the detective relived his rape, he became the eleven-year-old boy he had been at the time, from the high-pitched voice to the child's body language. It was not an act. And watching a grown man, especially one as self-possessed as Sherlock, become a terrified child was almost more of a horror than the reality of the attack itself. What made it doubly bad was how much John loved Sherlock. It tore his heart out to see him suffering like this, but he knew from personal experience that the only way out was _through_. So he had to stay calm, centre himself, be the rock in the storm to which his lover could cling, just as he had been for John.

John dropped onto his haunches and peered under the table. He could just about make out a shape. Streetlight from the windows caught frightened eyes, glinting in the shadows by the wall. Sherlock was huddled up in there, shaking, pinned to the plaster by his terror.

'Hi,' John smiled, willing his voice to be calm in a way that his churning heart was not.

Two gimlet eyes blinked back.

'I'm just going to put the lamp on, is that okay?'

Another blink.

John got up very slowly so as not to spook the little boy, and switched on one of the side lights. It cast a sudden yellow glow, and the shadows softened. Everything became instantly less menacing. He crouched down again, just to check. Sherlock had not moved. John settled himself on the carpet. He was about six feet from where the boy-Sherlock shivered in his den. He made no effort to close the gap or to speak, or even to look too hard at Sherlock. Just sat there quietly, allowing both of them to get used to his presence.

After about fifteen minutes, Sherlock let out a shuddering sigh, as much a sob as anything.

'Would you like a cup of tea,' John asked him gently.

A long pause. Then a careful nod.

'I think I might have some biscuits. Would you like a chocolate biscuit with it?'

Pause. Wary nod.

The irony of coaxing a child traumatised by sexual assault with chocolate biscuits was not lost on John. Still, it was the best he could do under the circumstances. He got carefully to his feet, ignoring the twinge of pain in his leg, and made them both tea. He bought a tray back from the kitchen, two mugs and a plate with four chocolate biscuits on it. Carefully he laid the tea and the plate down on the carpet about two feet from the table, still in neutral territory he calculated, but a little closer, and retreated a little way with his own mug.

There was another long pause. He watched the wary eyes flick from mug and hobnob to his own face and back, working out risk versus reward. Eventually a hand stretched out and snatched up a biscuit. There was a crunch.

'Good?'

No response, but then another crunch. Sherlock was eating. That was good. It would ground him back in his body, bring him a little closer to reality.

John sipped at his tea, trying to appear far more relaxed than he felt inside.

After a while, long fingers stretched out and wrapped around the handle of the mug, drawing it in. He heard a slurp, and a sniff.

Come home to me Sherlock, he thought.

A little while later there was a shaky sigh.

'That's a good den,' John said, feeling that he needed to make a little more progress now. 'I'll bet it keeps you safe, doesn't it?'

Those glittering, pale eyes followed him watchfully.

'I know you're scared, Sherlock. I know they hurt you. I won't hurt you. I won't let them hurt you either. Never again. Do you understand?'

Pause. Nod.

'Maybe I could come into your den? Do you think I could do that? Would you let me?'

Wary eyes. Long pause. Nod.

Under the table, it was extremely cramped. John managed to settle himself against the wall, about a foot from Sherlock. The childlike face turned to him, streaked with tears, the eyes red and scared, head cocked on one side, observing. He was curled up, knees pulled tightly to his chest, arms wrapped around to hold them in. Anyone else would have been amazed that a six foot man could remain in such a position in so small a space. But not John. He knew what Sherlock was capable of, how he could utterly disregard the signals his rangy body was sending him, withstand virtually any pain and discomfort. It was only now that John realised why. He was so dissociated from his body because of the rape. He had completely disconnected from it, shut down entirely. He wasn't kidding when he said he regarded his body as mere transport. His physical shell was an inconvenience to a man who lived entirely within his mind. It occurred to John then that perhaps that was why their kisses had awaked the memories. John's caresses had reasserted the connection between Sherlock's mind and body, and with it came all the memories he had so diligently repressed. And now here they were, the pair of them, hiding under a gateleg table with two mugs of tea, two remaining milk chocolate hobnobs, and a world of horrific memories to keep them company.

'Very nice,' John said, looking up at the underside of the tabletop. It was rough, unpolished. He glanced at Sherlock. The frightened child looked back. And then did something John would never really be able to get his head around. An act of trust so overwhelming that it stung the doctor's eyes.

Sherlock put his palms on the carpet to support his weight, leant down, rested his head on John's lap, and then curled up with a relieved sigh.

John didn't dare move, or even breathe, for a moment. Then he reached out and gently brushed Sherlock's hair with his fingertips. A few more strokes, and he was rewarded with something like a purr. Sherlock resettled himself in his ball, sighed and closed his eyes. His body softened.

John had no idea how long they sat there under that table. It would not be the last time, he was sure of that. He wondered about Lasky, whether if he could see Sherlock in this state, a grown man becoming in every sense possible a terrified child, would he understand the effects of the evil he had done? Would guilt finally weigh on him? John thought not, but he would have liked to know, though he didn't want to expose Sherlock to that monster ever again.

He thought about Sherlock's response to the Lasky case being plastered all over the front pages. He had been apparently unaffected until yesterday, when he had picked up the Independent, which had a particularly lurid picture of the creature on the front, and said, in a calm voice:

'I think I shall go and see him in prison. I should like to see that he is suffering.'

Lasky had initially refused to bow to pressure. Even with the enormous volume of irrefutable evidence against him, he had maintained the classic child abuser's denial, and then when that hadn't worked, had been adamant that the boys he had raped had wanted it, had enjoyed it, had been giving him the come-on for months. It made John want to vomit.

Mycroft had been to see Lasky on remand. The next day, the rapist had appeared in court to plead guilty to all charges, saving the tax payer a fortune in legal costs. And, more importantly, saving his victims and their families the horror of a court case. The details had tumbled out into the press, no doubt with a little help from the older Holmes. John had been worried about how Sherlock would take this, but the fact that word of his own ordeal was kept scrupulously out of the headlines seemed to make him impassive. He had settled on his own healing trajectory.

Now, resting his hand softly on one bony shoulder, John allowed himself to feel a little anger on his beloved's behalf. Sherlock might be an insufferable git sometimes, but he was John's insufferable git, and he didn't deserve this. Nobody did. John wondered what he would do if he was left in a windowless room with Lasky for half an hour. What punishments could he reek on that despicable body? He was sure Mycroft could arrange it.

Nicholls by contrast _had_ been sorry, or so Mycroft said. John thought of him, swinging from the bannister of his neat little suburban house. It felt like he had cheated justice, but Mycroft had been adamant that the man was haunted by remorse in way that Lasky never would be.

Lasky. John had hated Moriarty, he realised now. But nowhere near as much as he hated Lasky. Oh, the things he would do to that man, if only he had the chance…

A small voice shook him out of his fantasies of torture.

'John?' It was high, unbroken, but still undoubtedly that of his love.

'Yes?'

'Cuddle?'

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><p><em>Tomorrow, a little normality returns to Baker Street, and Greg is encouraged to take a little risk...<em>


	12. Chapter 12

**The Case of the Cuddle Chapter12**

Okay, my darlings we are over the worst. Reynardetta, you can stop _not_ crying now. Sit back and enjoy a little Mystradian interlude…

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><p>'Come on up!' John was standing at the top of the stairs. Mrs Hudson, who had let Lestrade in, stood out of the way.<p>

'Go on, dear,' she said with a smile of encouragement.

He took the stairs two at a time, and met John on the landing.

'How is he?' It was a softly spoken question, pressed into John's ear as he reached the top, one hand resting lightly on the smaller man's bicep.

'I can hear, you know,' an imperious voice called from the sitting room.

John rolled his eyes. 'As you can tell, much better.'

Lestrade laughed, and followed the doctor into the flat.

Sherlock was sprawled on the couch with his nose in a book.

'Does the entire population of London know of my predicament?'

'Sherlock, be civil. Greg's a friend, remember?' He signalled to Lestrade to follow him into the kitchen. 'Besides it's a perfectly reasonable question when you've been incommunicado for a fortnight.'

Sherlock peeled himself up off the cushions and followed them. John leaned over the sink to fill the kettle.

'What happened to that cup of tea you offered me about three hours ago?' Sherlock demanded, scowling.

'It's on the coffee table and its stone cold because you didn't drink it,' John huffed, putting the kettle on the hob and lighting the gas. He had treated them to a new kettle, the old-fashioned kind that whistled, because it felt comforting and homely. 'Now be nice to Greg. He's come to see how you are.'

'Come to gloat at my misfortune?'

'Sherlock, he was Mycroft's liaison on the Lasky case.'

'Oh.' The detective looked crestfallen. Lestrade noticed how pale he was, how blue about the eyes, puffy. He must have been crying a great deal over the last two weeks to make that much of a mess of those beauties, Greg thought.

'Don't worry. Sherlock, I haven't breathed a word,' he reassured.

Sherlock looked embarrassed. He stepped forward and gave Greg an awkward hug, all elbows and ribs, held on to Greg's back and breathed into his neck quietly, like a dutiful child.

'Thank you,' he whispered.

Greg, wrong-footed by the unexpected gesture, patted Sherlock kindly over his shoulder blades with cupped hands.

''Sokay, mate. Anything for you, you know that.'

The kettle started to whistle.

'Tea,' John said, brightly, trying to diffuse the moment.

'Talking of which,' Greg said, stepping away and releasing the skinny body. 'How's Mycroft? He was pretty shaky when I saw him last.'

John was filling mugs with boiling water, soft bubbling noises from the tea bags as they were drenched. Sherlock hooked the milk out of the fridge, and John took it with raised eyebrows from his hands – he was clearly trying to make reparation.

'He's okay,' John shrugged, handing Greg a mug. 'Bit wobbly. I think he feels better for having done something concrete.'

The doctor lent back against the kitchen worktop, arms crossed, his tea in his fist, and Sherlock was suddenly beside him, hip to hip, his body fitting against the smaller man's as if it were a complimentary jigsaw piece. He put an arm loosely around his flatmate's waist, as if he was asserting his territory. Greg wasn't stupid, certainly not where Sherlock was concerned anyway. It was a message: _We are together now_.

'I'm sorry. I wish I could have been more help,' Greg said, giving Sherlock a sharp look that declared, _ok, I get it already._

'You drove him home, that was more than enough,' Sherlock said.

'Well, I could hardly leave him in Reading, shaking like a leaf.'

'He's doing okay,' Sherlock repeated.

'So are you, by the looks of it,' Greg grinned.

'Excellent care from the good doctor, of course,' Sherlock replied, giving Greg a shrewd look, which John caught.

'Sherlock?'

'He's not seeing anybody,' Sherlock told Greg. 'Since you were obviously wondering.'

'Oh,' the inspector said, colouring just a little. 'Right.'

'Sherlock, stop fishing.'

'Well, it's so obvious even a blind man in a barrel could see it.'

'Why don't you take your lovely book on funguses and go and read in bed?' John smiled indulgently at him.

Sherlock pouted.

'Go on, grown ups need to talk.' This, with a little squeeze around Sherlock's waist. The detective sighed and gave John a peck on the cheek.

'If you talk about me, I shall know,' he said as he sloped off.

They watched him go like indulgent parents.

Greg slurped at his scalding tea. 'Seriously, how is he?'

John pulled a chair out and sat down, inviting Lestrade to join him with a wave of his hand. 'Well, put it this way, I've stopping coming home and finding him gibbering under the table.'

'Really?' Greg glanced into the living room, where the gateleg table that John used as a desk is pushed up against the wall, covered with papers and piled-up books. There were dark shadows underneath.

John shook his head, sadly. 'Took me two hours to coax him out the other night. Not good.'

'I can imagine,' Greg said, shaking his head too, in sympathy, although really he knew he couldn't. 'Is there anything you need? Can I be useful?'

'Nah, but thanks.' John put on his brave face. 'I think it's just a case of time. He seems to be coming out of the crisis phase. The flashbacks aren't so frequent now, or so long. He's more himself. But it's going to take a while.'

'Yes.'

'Come on, you can't resist it.'

Greg laughed. 'Is it that obvious?'

John grinned.

'So you two have finally got together?'

John shrugged. 'I love him. He loves me. What's there to say?'

Greg couldn't help shaking his head. 'It was clear you two had something from the off, but I never had you pegged for one of us.'

'One of us?'

'Yeah, gay.'

'I'm not.'

Greg gave him his best 'old-fashioned' look.

'I'm straight,' John told him firmly. 'And Sherlock, well, Sherlock doesn't know what the fuck he is right now, and even if he did, there's no way I would risk aggravating his current mental state by making demands for sex. It just isn't going to happen.'

'So it's platonic?'

'Yep.'

'Not being funny, John, but it doesn't look very platonic to me. Never has.'

'I'm not gay,' John repeated, sounding less patient this time.

'Okay,' Greg said, holding his palms up in supplication. 'Anyway, I'm happy for you both. You look really good together.'

'Thank you.' John took a long slug from his tea and looked at the table top for inspiration. 'Anyway, you and Mycroft.'

Now it was Greg's turn to squirm. 'Am I barking up the wrong tree?'

'Sherlock doesn't seem to think so.'

'Seriously?'

'Look, don't ask me, Mycroft could be into fucking little blue aliens for all I know. But I'll tell you this. Seeing him the other night-' John sighed. 'It was really sad. I mean, he spends his whole life watching over other people, but there's no one to watch over him. I don't know that he's lonely as such – I shouldn't think he has time to be – but there is definitely something missing. I suppose he must have friends, but not that I've ever heard him mention. He doesn't seem to have anybody to confide in, and he really needed someone that night.'

Greg was used to being impressed by John. He was so sensitive when it came to people. That was from being a doctor, Greg supposed. But there was something intuitive about the little blonde man in front of him, a gentleness. He seemed to be able to see the emotions going on under other people's skins in a way that Sherlock's clever deductions could never uncover.

'You should ask him out for a drink.' The voice came from the door. Sherlock was leaning casually against the sill, a gentle smile on his lips that actually extended for once to his eyes.

'I thought you were going to bed,' John said crisply.

'You may have thought that,' Sherlock replied. 'I certainly never said I would.'

'Would you mind if I did?' Greg asked him, trying to cut through the bromantic bickering. 'Ask him out, I mean.'

'I would be very happy if you did,' Sherlock told him. 'You're a good man, Greg. I think, frankly, you deserve better than my brother, but if he is what your heart desires then I wish you joy of it.'

'You think he'd even agree?'

Sherlock shrugged. 'Buggered if I know, but if you don't ask, you'll never find out, will you?'

* * *

><p>Outside on the street, Greg glanced at his mobile. He'd had Mycroft's number for several years, from the time when Sherlock's addiction was causing constant emergencies. It was only a quick text, he told himself. It wasn't as if he had to look the man in the eye and ask. He'd got his strategy. A sympathetic, friendly shoulder to cry on. What could be easier? Just a vague offer. And if it was just an offer of friendship, then he wouldn't have made a fool of himself if he was refused, would he?<p>

_ M, just seen Sherlock. Seems to be doing well, but is worried about you. If you want to have a chat over a pint sometime, I'd be happy to help. Lestrade._

He pressed send and then tried to console himself that he hadn't just ruined his own life.

Second later, his phone beeped.

_ Is my brother setting me up on dates now? MH_

Greg groaned, rubbed his hand over his suddenly glowing face, and trudged to his car, quivering with embarrassment. He had just slid his keys into the ignition when a second text came.

_ G, heartfelt apologies, I am getting churlish in my old age. Would be very grateful. Are you free tonight? MH_

Greg groaned, and rested his head in his hands, elbows on the steering wheel. He wasn't sure which was worse, being blown off, or being successful.

_ Meet me at the Ram in Jameson Street in half an hour? G_

His heart was racing.

Bleep.

_ Perfect. See you there. MH_

Greg quickly twisted the rear view mirror and looked at himself. He looked like shit. But then he always did at the end of the working day. And this was half past eight at night. Mycroft would not be expecting anything different. But Mycroft always looked impeccably turned out whatever the time of day. Maybe it was something in the Holmes genes, he decided. Bastards, why wasn't I born with that, instead of the scruffy gene?

He twisted the mirror back to its proper angle and started the engine.

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><p><em>Tomorrow, Greg and Mycroft's first date…<em>


	13. Chapter 13

**The Cae of the Cuddle Chapter 13**

Dear All, thank you for all yoru lovely reviews, only 3 more at the time of writing and I will have made a whole century! Yay! I'm having terrible trouble with my fanfic account, so I may not be able to see your alerts or get yoru emails at present. Please bear with me until we get this sorted out. In the meantime, next few chapters are Mystradian moments, hope you enjoy a little time off...

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><p>The Ram had the advantage of being 10 minutes walk from Greg's flat, which meant he could park his car outside and get wasted, and not have to worry about a cab fare home. That was one of the reasons he liked it. It did good beer too. But best of all, it didn't have a jukebox.<p>

Mycroft was sitting in a bay that was just far enough away from the door to be out of the draft when it opened, but close enough to be visible when Greg came in, with the attendant drizzle and flutter of dead leaves. Mycroft smiled and got up, holding out a hand to be shaken genially. How straight of him, Greg thought. But then the Ram was a very straight pub – Greg had the sense not to frequent gay pubs because he knew all too well what went on there, and he had to have some time off duty, after all.

'What'll you have?' Greg asked, fishing for his wallet.

'Oh, no, my round.'

'Come on Mycroft, it was my invitation.'

'I'll provide the beer and you provide the shoulder to cry on, wasn't that the premise?'

'You've got me there.' Greg laughed awkwardly. 'I'll have a pint of Jennings, please.'

'Your wish is my command.'

He watched as Mycroft walked to the bar, groping in his trouser pocket for change. This meant that the back vent of his jacket was snagged up, revealing an ample and extremely attractive backside. Greg suddenly felt a bit flustered and sat down on the plush covered bench seat with a thump.

What the fuck am I doing? I'm too old for this shit!

Mycroft came back from the bar with two dark pints, and settled himself beside Greg. They raised their glasses and drank. Greg made his habitual face after his first mouthful – bared teeth, lips rolled back, the classic grimace of a man who has _really_ needed a pint for the last five hours. Then he laughed at Mycroft's response.

'Never had Jennings before?'

'Erm,' said Mycroft, trying hard to suppress the automatic twist in his lips. His eyes were watering. 'Salty.'

'Let me get you something else.'

'No, no!' Mycroft reached out and touched Greg's forearm as he made to get up. 'Really, it's an acquired taste, obviously. I shall make efforts to acquire it.'

Greg laughed. 'An acquired taste!'

'Yes. Like olives and buggery. Didn't somebody say that once?'

Greg could feel his cheeks going pink again.

'So, this is your regular habitat,' Mycroft said, looking around. The Ram was one of those London pubs that glitters with etched glass and polished brass.

'They keep a good pint, and it's close to home.' Greg took another swig. 'And there's no piped music.'

'Ah, yes. A definite advantage.' Mycroft sighed and smiled genially. 'Before we go any further I should like to thank you –'

'Look, it was no trouble to drive you home the other night. It's not like I was going to leave you there in that state.'

'Not for that. Well, not just for that. You have been a loyal and supportive friend to my brother through many difficult times. He is headstrong, rude and infuriating, and he doesn't deserve you. I am grateful that you have been so kind to him.'

'Contrary to popular opinion,' Greg pointed out, 'Sherlock is a good man. Infuriating, yes, I'll grant you that. But I like him. I count myself lucky to have him as a friend, and I'll tell him that to his face.'

'Yes. I know you would. Which is what makes you such an extraordinary man.' Mycroft's fond smile made Greg glow.

'Mycroft, why did you come?'

'Because you asked me.'

'Come on.'

Mycroft slurped at his pint again, and his nostrils flared with distaste. 'It's no good,' he said. 'I really think this is a taste I shall never acquire.'

'We all have our limits.'

'Yes. Exactly.' The elder Holmes fixes the inspector with his piercing stare. 'I think I have reached mine. With the beer and with life.'

A weighted silence hung between them.

The Mycroft sat back and crossed his legs with a languid style that recalled Sherlock. They were so similar sometimes. The policeman leant forward on his forearms, looked at the bubbles clinging to the meniscus of his beer, and sighed.

'This is insane. I mean, you and me?'

'Why?'

'Well, you're so bloody posh you were practically born with a silver spoon up your arse, and I'm just this scruffy oik from Chingford.'

'Then Chingford finally has something to recommend it.'

'We have nothing in common.'

'How do you know? You hardly even know me.'

'Isn't that the point? I mean, I don't know you at all, and you probably know everything about me that there is to know.'

'Small facts. They paint a picture but it is hardly a portrait of the complete man. If you want to know me, ask me something. I assure you I will tell you everything I can. Everything the Official Secrets Act doesn't cover, anyway.'

'Yeah, right!' Greg had little faith in Mycroft's ability to give him the truth about himself. Looking at that suave face, he wondered how long it had taken him to develop such an inscrutable expression. Probably born with it, he supposed.

'I mean it. Anything you like. Ask.'

'Okay, when did you first realise you were gay?'

Mycroft beamed. 'That's what I like about you, Greg. You cut straight to the chase.'

'Are you going to tell me?'

'When I went up to Eton. I was eleven. Of course, I didn't know what it was then. All I knew was that I as surrounded by these beautiful, angelic creatures and things were happening to my body that drove me wild with ecstasy. I wanked every night for my entire first year!' He chuckled softly to himself, recalling the memory. Then sighed and raised his eyes to meet Greg's, and continued. 'In my second year, I fagged for a nice boy from Buckinghamshire. He was kind to me. He explained everything, took me under his wing somewhat, although he wasn't of my persuasion. But sympathetic, if you know what I mean. I think he's the Bishop of Leicester now.'

'You make it sound so easy.'

'I suppose it was for me. I had my first affair with a boy in my dorm when I was thirteen. It was just a phase for him, but for me it was love.' He shrugged, an uncharacteristic gesture for a man so sure of himself as Mycroft. 'He's chairman of a FTSE 100 corporation now, married with three kids. I doubt he allows himself to remember what he did with me.'

'And after that?' Greg found he was fascinated.

'Oh, you know, the usual. I fell in love repeatedly at Cambridge. I was very romantic then, inclined to 'love not wisely but too well', as Shakespeare put it. I bought a boy home once, the Easter after, well, you know. Mummy told me it was a phase I had better grow out of. I imagine a psychiatrist would read all sorts of damning things into my relationship with my parents, losing my father so young, and having so difficult a mother, and so on. Anyway, when I went down, I joined the Service and after that, well, I hardly had time for relationships.'

Greg nodded. He knew how that felt.

'What about you?' Mycroft's deep blue eyes fixed on him.

Greg took another draught from his pint. 'You know I was married? Yes, well, I think I was always trying to escape the truth. It's hard to be different when you come from my kind of background. It's hardly 'Brideshead'. Judy and I got married and had kids because that was what you did. After Matthew, our second, arrived, our sex life pretty much died. She had an affair, and frankly I didn't blame her. By then, I knew I couldn't escape who I was.' Now it was Greg's turn to shrug. 'I ran around for a bit, after the divorce, tasted the scene. You know. Then work took over. Since then, there hasn't really been time.'

He sat back, and looked around the pub at the other punters. A group of middle aged women were laughing together over what looked like a row of vodka and tonics. A couple of blokes were sitting on bar stools, talking to the bar maid. Some lads in suits had obviously just come out of work. They looked tired and strung out, making taut jokes and gripping their glasses with white knuckles.

'You know,' Mycroft conjectured suddenly. 'One of the things I really like about the lifestyle I've chosen is that you don't have to bankrupt yourself buying candlelit dinners for two in order to establish whether you want to sleep with someone or not.'

Greg stared at him agog.

'Do I have to make myself a little clearer?'

'No, I'm reading you loud and clear,' Greg wheezed.

'So?' Mycroft jutted out his jaw inquisitively. 'Your place or mine?'

'Er-' Greg considered the state of his flat. He hadn't been expecting a visitor, so he'd left it in its normal chaos. 'Probably better at yours.'

Outside a sleek black Mercedes limousine was waiting for them. Mycroft opened the door for Lestrade.

'Look, are you sure about this?' he asked the spy.

'Get in, darling,' Mycroft told him with a lavicious smile.

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><p><em>Tomorrow, a Mystradian seduction...<em>


	14. Chapter 14

**The Case of the Cuddle Chapter 14**

Hello my lovelies, I thought you might like a bonus chapter to thank you for getting me above my 100 reviews, so here is a little more in the way of Mystradian shenanigans. I do have a bit of a hidden agenda, though. It means we can get to the bonking a bit quicker.

So remember, people, more reviews, more smut.

Oh, and for anyone who will be amused by such things, my husband just informed me in his usual cheerful way that it is very appropriate that our boys are drinking Jennings bitter, since it is brewed in Cockermouth. I leave you to your own conclusions…

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><p>Westminster. Greg was kicking himself. He should have known. Mycroft had the penthouse in a brand spanking new block on the far side of the river, a short walk across the bridge to Westminster Palace, and Whitehall beyond, and the enormous hulk of the MI6 building on the opposite bank further up. The flat had a separate lift for his sole use.<p>

'Security,' he said. 'You can imagine how many people would like to get to me.'

Yep, Greg thought. Me for a start.

The lift opened into a lobby with a front door. Mycroft let them in, keys jangling. Beyond, it was elegant, open plan living all the way. Greg goggled.

'Can I get you a drink?' Mycroft opened a cabinet in the wall and took out a bottle of single malt while Greg stared around himself. It was dazzling, a bachelor pad from the pages of 'World of Interiors' magazine. Impeccable art and collector pieces of furniture.

Mycroft came up beside him and pressed a tulip-shaped glass into his hand. That was when Greg realised that this man really knew about his whiskies – no cut-class tumblers to diffuse the nose for Mycroft.

'Do you like it?'

'Its not what I expected,' Greg blurted out, and then cringed.

'I wanted something different from Sandon. Not heritage, if you know what I mean. Anthea got some decorator in to do it. It's a bit modern for me, but since I'm hardly here-'

Greg grinned at the thought that Mycroft considered a 1956 Eames chair 'modern'.

'Well, it ain't Chippendale, that's for sure.'

'I always find Chippendale rather a bore,' Mycroft said, as if everybody had Chippendale. 'One has to be so careful not to scratch it. Furniture should be used, in my opinion. As it is, Mummy insists on green baize over everything the minute you want to put a glass down. Very tiresome.'

'I can imagine.' He was standing in the middle of a huge shag pile rug so deep that it almost completely concealed his shoes. A sudden image flashed into his mind of Mycroft flat on his back in the midst of its fluffy surface, naked, legs spread. Oh God.

Mycroft had already seated himself on the white leather sofa.

'May I lay my cards on the table, Greg?'

'Yes.' Lestrade felt rooted to the rug by his fantasy, but he tried hard to concentrate on the man speaking to him.

'I'm getting on. I'm forty-eight. There will come a time when I shall have to retire, and when I do, I don't want to be one of those old Service soaks who drinks himself to death alone in his flat because he's spent his whole life being nothing but a spook. There is more, and I want it. I'm not looking for casual sex. I want a relationship. Seeing John and Sherlock has made me realise that. A man is not an island, as they say. But I am a busy man. I don't know if busyness makes one an island, but it certainly gives one very little room to develop a long term partnership. Nevertheless, that is my hope.'

Greg blinked. Had he heard correctly? They hadn't even kissed yet, and already Mycroft was offering him a long-term relationship. Of course, Mycroft saw through his thought-process immediately.

'Of course, if I am going too fast for you-'

'No! Look-' Greg put his scotch down on the coffee table and sat down beside the senior Holmes, resting a hand on his knee. He was gratified that Mycroft shivered at his touch.

'I'm fifty. Not far from force retirement age, really. I'm in the same situation.' He let his hand travel up and down Mycroft's pinstripe-clad thigh. It was deliciously muscular under the fine wool. 'I've, well, for want of a better word, fancied you for a long time, Myc – may I call you Myc?'

Myc –duly rechristened – nodded graciously.

'I figured you were pretty much out of my league, which is why I never said anything. But like you say, time's getting on, I'm not getting any younger, and I'm fed up of waiting for an angel to fall out of the sky and ravish me.'

Mycroft laughed.

'I need a connection. Someone to love. Someone to need. Someone to need me back.'

Mycroft gazed up at him for a moment, then reached out and cupped his cheek with his long sensuous fingers. Time was suspended by that gesture. Lestrade found that he was holding his breath, his hand halting on Mycroft's meaty leg. The spy lent forward and pressed his lips to Greg's. The leather under their rumps squeaked as they shifted to achieve a more comfortable position, and their first kiss dissolved into giggles.

'Whose idea was the leather couch?'

'It's got a metal frame,' Mycroft laughed softly in Greg's ear. 'You could tie me to it and fuck me senseless.'

Greg breathed heavily into Mycroft's ear. 'I'll put that one on the list for future reference.' And then he slid his hand over Mycroft's crotch and his tongue into his mouth.

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><p><em>Tomorrow, the bonking…<em>


	15. Chapter 15

**The Case of the Cuddle Chapter 15**

Hello my lovelies! Thank you again for all your wonderful reviews. I am so glad you like my Mystrade. I have to admit to having a few nerves about it, as its not something I'm used to doing, so you have reassured me beautifully. And remember, more reviews, more smut... So anyway, here it is, the bonking you have all been waiting for.

**Warning:** Men going at it. It does what it says on the tin.

**Disclaimer:** I don't think I mentioned it, but I don't own this stuff, or achieve any revenue from it. You have to say it somewhere, don't you?

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><p>The white leather squeaked. Mycroft was on his back, mostly naked now, and Greg had settled between his legs, rutting hungrily as they kissed.<p>

His head was spinning. Greg had imagined making love to Mycroft so often, but he had never really believed it would happen. And now, so quickly, here they were, and it was way beyond anything he could ever have dreamed up. Greg had expected, for example, that Mycroft would have the same build as Sherlock, bones like knives under his skin, pale and hairless and slender. By Mycroft was not like that at all.

He was, for want of a better word, beefy. Muscular. Solid. He had a broad chest covered with a thick growth of wiry red hair, a pelt that seemed to cover his belly and back too.

There was not an ounce of spare flesh on him. Under that impeccable Saville Row tailoring, he was strong and weighty. He would have made two of even Greg's slightly overweight frame.

His skin had a satisfying rosy tone, and was covered with freckles. He seemed to love having his neck kissed –

'No visible marks, please,' he panted as Greg grazed his teeth along his throat.

Now, stripped to the waist and pliant in Greg's arms, he was moaning with need. Greg knelt up between his legs and went to remove his jacket, but Mycroft reached out a hand to stay him.

'No,' he breathed. 'You stay dressed.'

'Mmmm,' Greg grinned. 'Kinky, eh? That's fine with me.'

He pulled off his tie though. Just for comfort's sake.

'I want you naked,' he growled.

Mycroft sat up and gripped Greg's belt buckle. He looked up into his eyes as he started to unfasten it, then unzipped and slid his hand inside Greg's fly.

Greg groaned.

Long, sensitive fingers gripped him, stroked him. His cock strained against the cotton of his boxers for more friction.

'Fuck me,' Mycroft whispered, massaging.

'Babe, I'm going to fuck you so hard your teeth will rattle,' he panted.

Mycroft moaned and lay back on the couch, lifting his hips. Greg slid his hands under that substantial backside and tugged Mycroft's expensive trousers and pants down in one go. He dropped them on the carpet. Socks followed.

Greg stared at the man laid out under him. Mycroft had flopped one leg over the back of the sofa, spreading his thighs in invitation. His erection dripped glossy beads into the tangle of ginger hairs on his belly. It was broad, circumcised and a little longer than Greg's. He couldn't help licking his lips as he looked down at it.

'You're cut,' he said.

'Family tradition,' Mycroft said, which was probably more than Greg really wanted to know. He didn't want the concept of Sherlock's cock popping into his head right now, when he was about to roger his brother senseless. Never the less, there it was, bright pink and perky behind his eyes. He had to blink hard to eradicate it. It didn't work. Oh well, only one way to tackle that then.

He went down on Mycroft.

The spy did not seem to have been expecting it. He cried out, and arched his back with pleasure as Greg sucked his prick between his lips with an indulgent moan. It was beyond delicious. How many times had he imagined doing this, alone in his tatty little flat fisting his own cock in a seedy, lonely sweat? And now finally he had Mycroft's succulent length in his mouth. He let the glans pop out between his lips and then massaged it with them, spreading the tiny flood of precome over the naked purple crown. He licked Mycroft's slit with the tip of his tongue, eliciting a lavish groan. He kissed the entire shaft, revelling in the salty flavours, and rich, heady scents, buried his face in the thick crop of dark red curls at the base, and inhaled. Then took him deep again, sliding his head up and down as he worked his magic.

And when he was satisfied that Mycroft was panting and trembling enough, he began to work his way back, licking and sucking at his balls, then tickling his perineum with his tongue, so that the taller man squirmed against the leather upholstery, his perspiration making obscene squeaks. Mycroft tilted his pelvis up, pressing down with the leg that was hooked over the back of the couch to support himself, so that he could offer Greg better access for what they both wanted.

Greg searched with a fingertip until he found it, the pink pucker of Mycroft's hole. The first slight stroke brought a gasp and a shudder of pleasure.

'Good?' Greg asked him, caressing.

'So good,' Mycroft breathed. He twisted himself up, bending almost double as he strained towards Greg's hand.

Greg decided to take the plunge. He buried his face between Mycroft's cheeks and licked and sucked and probed to his heart's content. The taut ring of muscle quickly softened under his ministrations. He had no idea whether Mycroft had had the chance to wash or prepare in any way for their encounter, but he was amazed that the sweetness of his taste there, a kind of rich, earthy flavour that made him think of mince pies and Christmas cake. Wreathed in cinnamon and nutmeg though he was, there was something about Mycroft that was so irredeemably _male_ that made Greg so hard it hurt. He couldn't help himself any longer. He had to have him.

He struggled upright, wanting desperately to rip off this stupid cheap suit, but Mycroft had begged him to keep it on. He pulled his own cock clear of his trousers and worked some spittle into its crown, agonising at the sensitivity there. It was going to take everything he had not to come immediately.

'Ready?' he asked Mycroft.

The younger man's eyes sparkled. 'Ready,' he panted.

Lining himself up, he pressed the crown against Mycroft's hole, and then eased forward.

Mycroft let out a blissful moan.

Greg was determined to go slowly, but every inch of that tight arse was a heaven beyond anything he had ever experienced.

'I don't think I can-' he struggled.

'Fuck me, then,' Mycroft begged. 'Fuck me hard!' He reached up above his head with both hands and grabbed onto the metal frame of the sofa as Greg ploughed into him. His elegant lips parted and he began to keen, a deep note punctuated by a grunt at each thrust. He took every inch without complaint, though Greg was sure that, at least to begin with, it must have hurt. He was pumping into that voluptuous body so lustily that the whole couch was rocking, but he didn't care. Neither of them cared.

'Harder!' Mycroft wailed. 'Fuck me harder!'

Greg gritted his teeth, fighting the tension that was coiling ever tighter in the pit of his belly and loins.

'Yes,' he growled. 'Yes!'

There was something electrifying about not feeling Mycroft's hairy skin against his own, something erotically charged about being clothed when his lover was not. He could see the attraction now. Mycroft needed release not only sexually, but mentally. He needed to let someone else take control for a change. And that was okay with Greg. It made Mycroft seem more human, gave him a vulnerability under that austere carapace of detachment.

As he pounded into him, Greg watched every synapse of Mycroft's incredible brain systematically shutting down, until all that was working was the animal, the hindbrain, the part of him that wanted, needed, this crazed rutting. It made little dazzling thrills break out all over Greg's own body, seeing this magnificent man in the grip of such desire. He could feel the rush of orgasm coming, his eyes becoming clouded, his skin singing, the muscles within his pelvis beginning their tremors. He tried, but he knew he couldn't hold out anymore.

As if he knew how close his lover was, Mycroft arched his back again, wailed, and loosed a cascade of milky come across his own tousled belly, kicking and writhing like a dervish. The noise he let out was beyond definition, a fiendishly erotic sound that gripped Greg's spinal cord and wrenched it, and set ice and fire exploding between his legs.

He let out a roar. And came. Mycroft howled as Greg's release scalded his insides with ecstasy.

For a moment, there was nothing but the heavenly spasms of pleasure.

And then Greg became aware that he had collapsed onto Mycroft's body and was lying there, inert. He lifted his head, woozy.

Mycroft was still clinging onto the metal frame of the couch. He was dripping with sweat.

'Fuck,' he gasped.

And Greg laughed.

'I don't think I can let go,' Mycroft said, looking a little embarrassed. Greg reached up and helped him, gently peeling the cramped fingers away.

'I'm sorry,' Mycroft told him. 'It's been a long time. I'm not used to feeling that out of control.'

Greg let his hand flutter over the spy's chest. 'I hope it wasn't a bad feeling.'

'It was incredible,' Mycroft whispered, pulling the inspector against him. 'Kiss me?'

And Greg did.

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><p>The next morning saw a flurry of text messages to and from Greg's phone.<p>

_So, did you fuck him? S_

Mind your own business, you gossip-gobbler, G.

_I'll take that as a yes then, S._

You may think that, I couldn't possibly comment. G.

_You have obviously imbibed his attitude along with his semen. S_

That's gross. G

_Which bit? S_

The attitude. The semen was very nice, thank you. Not that I told you anything. G

_Not a word passed your lips. They were probably too busy with other things. S_

**Sherlock, stop badgering my lover for prurient details, Mycroft Holmes.**

_Mycroft, So he's good in bed then? S_

**Exemplary. But you never heard it from me. M**

_M, knowing you, the whole of London heard it from you. S_

**Jealous brat, M**

And then a pause, followed by:

**RUOK? Mycroft.**

Fantastic. Suit's ruined tho. You? Greg

**I'll buy you another one. I am fine. Still tingling with you, Myc.**

And a moment later:

**Greg, we need to do it on the rug. Come tonight, Myc.**

Myc, the rug, the chairs, the table, the balcony, the sink, the washing machine, the kitchen counters (all of them), the shower, the bath, the credenza (whatever that is), the coffee table. Oh, and the bed would be good too. 7pm okay with you? G

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><p><em>Tomorrow, back with John and Sherlock, and an unexpected invitation…<em>


	16. Chapter 16

**The Case of the Cuddle Chapter 16**

Hello, my lovelies, thank you for all your wonderful reviews. I've been having a really tough time lately, and you guys are keeping me going through it all. I'm so glad you liked Mystrade - it was a bit of a risk to digress like that, but I think it worked. So anyway, here we are, back with our lovely boys, and about to face a social outing. Please review...

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><p>Sherlock had only agreed because John had used the puppy look on him. He knew his love couldn't resist it when he did that thing with his eyes, making them all wide and dewy like that.<p>

'You've got me wrapped around your little finger,' he grumbled.

He wasn't sure quite why John laughed so bitterly at that.

It was Sarah's idea. She was seeing somebody new, a man called Andrew, a maxillofacial surgeon. John was not quite sure why she would want an ex present, let alone having him there with the man who had broken them up, but he was sure there must be a reason.

'Either she wants to rub your nose in it, or she wants your approval,' Sherlock said tartly in the taxi on the way there.

'Sherlock, just – just be nice, okay?'

'I'm always _nice_,' Sherlock said, raising an irritated eyebrow.

'Be_have_!'

Mike Stanford and his wife were also guests, as were another couple, called Peter and Meredith. Meredith was American. John groaned internally when they were introduced. He found himself praying desperately to a God he didn't believe in: 'Just let us get out of this alive, please?'

The dinner party was being held in Andrew's bright Victorian villa in Hackney. It had high ceilings and ornate ceiling roses, and walls painted white. There were lots of expensive-looking abstract paintings, and a chandelier hung over the antique mahogany dinner table. The curtains were made of gold slubbed taffeta. Elegant wasn't the word. John found himself quaking at what he had let them in for. The thought of Sherlock cooped up in a place like this, with three other couples over boeuf bourgignon, was enough to make Afghanistan look like Marbella.

He was amazed that they made it through the first two courses without the whole thing blowing up in his face. But of course, he had relaxed too soon.

'So,' said Meredith, leaning forward and clasping her hands against her cheek in that way that means an intimate question is about to be asked. She was sitting opposite Sherlock and John, her arms bare and gleaming in the delicate refracted light from the Austrian crystal above. 'How long have you two been together?'

Sherlock pushed a lonely lump of meat around his plate with a fork. At least he'd made an effort to eat the food, John thought, but that was probably because John had threatened to break both his legs if he didn't.

'That would depend on your definition of _together_,' he said.

'Well, you know, lovers,' she smiled in a twee way, as if she was trying to coax a secret from a teddy bear. John put his hand over his eyes for a moment, and steeled himself.

'We've known each other about two years,' he butted in.

Sherlock fixed Meredith with an icy stare. John's stomach turned over.

'We're not lovers,' he said coldly.

'Oh,' Mike Stanford's homely wife Carol said. 'But I thought-'

'John is straight and I have erectile dysfunction,' Sherlock announced to her. 'Ergo, we have as little sex and you and Mike do.'

'Sherlock!' John almost shouted as Carol went red and her eyes filled.

'Well, that's what you're here to find out, isn't it? You want to hear all about my nasty little secret,' Sherlock burst out.

John gripped his hand tightly. 'Love, I think you are being a bit paranoid.'

Sherlock looked at him, and must have seen the pain in his eyes because he seemed to deflate a little.

'Cheese!' Sarah piped, her voice suddenly high and strangled with tension. She jumped up. 'I'll just clear the plates and bring it in.'

'I'll help,' Sherlock said, gathering up crockery as fast as she was.

John watched them both retreat from the room.

'I'm sorry,' he said, turning to the remaining guests. 'He's had a bit of a rough time lately. And he's not very good at people.'

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><p>Sherlock followed Sarah into the kitchen and set his pile of plates on the draining board next to hers.<p>

'I have ruined your dinner party,' he said. 'You shouldn't have invited me.'

'Sherlock, when was the last time you went to a dinner party?'

'I've never been to one. No one would be mad enough to invite me.'

'Well, let me tell you, they are usually dreary affairs where all everybody talks about is their last trip to Tuscany, and which school they are sending their little darlings to next year. Ghastly, and boring as hell. Call me a madwoman, but I like to live a little dangerously. So you didn't ruin it, you just made it a bit more exciting, that's all.'

As she spoke, she gathered up the cutlery and dropped the whole lot in one go into the sink, with a clatter. She ran the hot tap on top and squirted in some Fairy liquid. It smelt lemony. Then she turned round and gave him an extremely candid look.

'I think I may be drunk,' she said. 'Are you and John really not having any sex?'

'I'm hardly capable, am I?' he muttered bitterly. 'Besides, he'll barely let me near him. We kiss and cuddle, and then he vaults off to the bathroom to sort himself out. I think he thinks he's protecting me, but all its doing is making me more and more frustrated and lonely. And I have no idea why I just told you that, because I _never _tell people things like that.'

Sarah started to fill the dishwasher. 'Well, I'm touched that you feel able to confide in me.'

'It's probably just the wine,' Sherlock said.

'Have you told him this?'

Sherlock grunted.

'Well, have you thought that maybe you aren't the only one with a problem about it? Perhaps it's not just that he doesn't want to frighten you or spark off a flashback. Perhaps he has his own issues. After all, he's never had a relationship with a man before.'

Sherlock said nothing, just studied her as she bent over, sliding the plates into the racks. It struck him then that she was actually a very attractive woman. John had made a serious mistake in exchanging her for himself. But it was too late to worry about that. He knew that nothing could change John's feelings for him; that much he could rely on, no matter how lovely Sarah was.

'What do you think I should do?'

She stood up. 'Sherlock Holmes, did you just ask me for advice?'

'Er, yes?'

She grinned. 'Bless you,' she said, and crossed the kitchen to give him a peck on the cheek. 'John really _is_ good for you, isn't he?'

'You've been to bed with him,' Sherlock said, looking down into the delicate blue of her eyes. 'You know what he likes.'

'You need to talk to him about this.'

'He won't talk. I've tried.'

She leant against the counter, arms folded, and thought about it for a minute.

'Well, look, I don't know how you'd feel about this, but he's really into oral sex. Giving _and_ receiving.'

'Yes.,' Sherlock said, giving the word the upward inflection that suggested he wanted more.

'Well, you could start with a massage. On the pretext of easing the pain in his shoulder, if you like. That would allow you in gently too, let you see how much you could cope with. He's very tactile. He likes to touch and be touched. And if that goes well, you could give him a hand job. Work up to a blow job later. See how that works.'

'A hand job?'

'Yes, you know what that is, right?'

'Of course. Manual stimulation.'

'Don't rush into the fellatio, though. I know you'll want to do everything perfectly the first time, but half the fun is learning one another's bodies.'

'Right. Yes.'

'Does that help?'

'Enormously. Thank you.'

Actually, he wanted to ask her half a dozen intimately technical questions about where to put his tongue or fingers to provoke the maximum amount of effect, but he sensed she would not want to go into such detail. It was a bit odd, now he considered it, imagining _her_ doing _that_ to _his_ John, let alone asking her discuss it. He looked at her mouth. It was plump and sensuous, slightly stained with red wine. Just the sort of lips John would like, he was sure. He found the idea surprisingly distasteful. It made something inside him prickle, and he was not sure why. Probably best not to think about it. He deleted the image immediately.

'Pleasure,' she went on, oblivious. She finished packing the dishes and started putting out the cheese on a block of polished olive wood.

'Look, can I ask your advice now?' She asked after a moment.

Sherlock, startled though he was, nodded.

'What do you think of Andrew?'

'Well, I, er-'

'I want your candid advice, Sherlock, not pretty words. If I'd wanted pretty words, I'd have asked John. Besides, you can read people, you know what they're really like. So I want you to tell me. What do you think?'

'And if I tell you I dislike him it'll look like sour grapes against my boyfriend's ex-girlfriend.'

'Hardly. Please? I really want to know.'

He took a deep breath.

'Well, he's a hopeless liar, that much is abundantly obvious from his pretence at being happy to see John. Really, you put him an impossible position-'

'Sherlock, please?'

'Oh, very well. He can't lie to save his life, which means he will not be able to be unfaithful to you, since he knows he will be unable to conceal his deceit. Not that he'd want to. From the way he looks at you, and the fact that he can barely keep his hands off you, I would deduce that he is besotted with you. I anticipate he will propose soon, probably in the next couple of days, and I would advise you to accept, since at your age he is the last chance you are likely to get to have the family you so obviously want. Really, your desperation is quite off-putting, Sarah. He'll make a very attentive father, and wants plenty of children – wants them rather too much, enough to make me wonder if he is not too needy, but you'd probably find that attractive. You might want to watch him on the discipline side as I am sure he is quite capable of letting his loved ones get away with murder. But since he is such a walk-over, I imagine he will suit your dominant personality. He knows his wine extremely well, too, which is another point in his favour.'

'You think he's going to propose?' she stuttered.

'Imminently. Are you okay, you seem to have something in your eye?'

She turned away from him and rubbed her face awkwardly. At which point Andrew came breezing in, carrying the empty vegetable serving plates. 'Everything okay down here?' he said, brightly, eyeing his girlfriend's ex-boyfriend's boyfriend.

'Perfectly fine,' Sherlock answered, patting him on the shoulder. 'Two boys and a girl, I should say. What do you think, Sarah?' She glowered daggers at him and he trotted back off up the stairs.

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><p>John was hugely relieved to see Sherlock slip back in through the dining room door, at least until he saw the mischievous grin on his face. Everyone was too absorbed in discussing the latest Steven Soderbergh film to take any notice of Sherlock's return, so John had the chance to whisper to him out of the corner of his mouth.<p>

'What have you _done_, Sherlock?'

Sherlock beamed. 'Made the world a happier place.'

'Oh, God.' He clapped his hands over his eyes.

'John, what do you think?' Meredith asked him. He had no idea what she meant.

A few minutes later, Andrew led a very pink-faced Sarah back into the room.

'Okay, everybody, we've got an announcement to make!'

The room stilled around them. Under the table, Sherlock's fingertips brushed John's leg.

'Sarah has just agreed to marry me!'

The room erupted into applause and cheers. Everyone but the Baker Street boys stood up to clap.

John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock looked at John. Under the table their hands locked together, palm to palm. John's eyes brimmed. And he leant over and kissed his love softly on the cheek. No one else noticed. No one but Sarah. And she was not sure whether it was her own happiness, or John and Sherlock's that made her glow.

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><p><em>Tomorrow, Sherlock begins to consider a solution to his problem...<em>


	17. Chapter 17

**The Case of the Cuddle Chapter 17**

Dear all, thank you again for the wonderful and instructive reviews. I was a bit troubled that I obviously didn't make Sherlock rude enough to Sarah, such that some of you thought they were friends. I'm not sure Sherlock would be capable of that just yet, although it might be nice in the long run. Will he and John be invited to her wedding, for instance? That's one to play with in my idle moments... Anyway, I shall make him much ruder next time!

**Apology**: I have to be absent on Parent Duty this weekend, so there won't be any more updates till Monday. I hope you won't abandon me. I promise you a corker to make up for it! And also, sorry for the stereotyping in this first section, but I thought Sherlock needed an EarthMother to get him through this.

**Warning**: discussion of sex, sexual dysfunction and child sexual abuse continues.

Now, without further ado...

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><p>Hettie Masekele was a broad black woman of South African descent. She was also Sherlock's new counsellor. It took her less than ten minutes to work out exactly how to handle his arrogance, hauteur and mercurial moods. She wouldn't tolerate his tricks and obfuscations. She challenged him and chased him, pushed every boundary he had. And on the days when he just had nothing to give, she gathered all six foot of him onto her ample lap and rocked him tenderly, like the little child he was inside.<p>

'Is it possible to fall in love with one's counsellor,' Sherlock asked John one afternoon after an especially harrowing session. Sherlock had been forced to call John and get him to pick him up from the Counselling Centre because he couldn't face hailing a cab on his own. John had poured him into the back of the taxi and wrapped him in his arms, but this sudden question from his tearstained beloved had taken him aback somewhat.

'Er-'

'No, I don't mean romantically,' Sherlock smiled, and burrowed his face into John's jacket. 'She's cleverer than Mycroft and I put together, that one. A worthy adversary.'

'You mean she gives you a hard time?'

'No, I mean she doesn't let me get away with anything. She makes Moriarty look like a toddler with a biting habit.'

John giggled. 'She must be formidable.'

'Utterly terrifying. Do you think she'd let me adopt her as my mother?'

'I thought you were going to adopt Mrs Hudson?'

'I can have two mothers if I want!' Sherlock was getting a little petulant. It was obviously one of his 'small child' days, as John thought of them.

'Three,' he corrected.

'I don't count my real mother.'

'I meant me.'

'You aren't my mother.' Sherlock raised his head and looked up into John's eyes. There was a misty quality to his pupils.

'Thank you,' John whispered. Although sometimes he wondered.

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><p>Sherlock kept his council through the long summer months. He never mentioned a word of what Sarah had said to him the night of the dinner party, nor did he press John to discuss the only closed subject between them. He was biding his time. This was not something he was usually capable of, which spoke volumes, he presumed, of how important it was to him to wait. When John was out, he did his research. Some of the images he found on the internet distressed him immensely. But some of them excited him in ways he could barely understand. He took mental notes on technique. He spent time deep in thought, plotting. He knew what he wanted. For once in his life, he was prepared to wait to get it.<p>

August had reached its sultry heights when they finally caught the Square Mile Fraudster. Rachel Kemp preyed upon City hedge fund managers and took them to the cleaners. Lestrade was obviously of the opinion that the bloodsucking bastards deserved it, but nevertheless, he stood his whole team a round at the pub the night Kemp was taken into custody.

It was sweltering. London was bathed in a sweat, its streets a tangle of dust and melting tarmac. Everyone was thirsty. Even Sherlock had two gin and tonics, which he never would have considered otherwise. John had two pints of Stella, then levered Sherlock up from the table.

In the taxi on the way home, he rolled the windows down and closed his eyes to the limpid breeze. Sherlock held his hand quietly. They stopped in the midst of a traffic jam. The evening sun sliced a golden shaft down between the high buildings and into the cab. It gilded Johns cheek, caught threads of bronze in his eyelashes as he blinked lazily.

Sherlock's breath was stopped in his throat. He knew he had never seen anything so beautiful. That was the moment he made up his mind. He couldn't wait any longer.

* * *

><p>They had closed the curtains in the flat to keep out the blazing sunshine. It kept the place cool, but left it stuffy. When they got in, John went round opening windows. He did the bedroom first, then came downstairs. Which was where Sherlock accosted him, right in the middle of the living room rug, resting his palm tenderly on his doctor's broad chest.<p>

'John,' he breathed.

John must have known and understood his tone. He looked up into Sherlock's eyes, slightly blurred from the gin and success.

'John, I want to make love to you. Let me make love to you?'

A tremor went through the little doctor's body.

'I.. we..,' he struggled. 'You know we can't.'

Sherlock craned his head down and nuzzled John's cheek. 'I don't see why not.'

'Because you can't.'

John turned away suddenly.

'Well, thank you for reminding me,' Sherlock snapped. 'I would have forgotten otherwise.'

'It's for your own good, Sherlock. I don't want you to have a relapse.'

'Bollocks!'

'What?'

'This has nothing to do with my own good, as you put it.'

John stared at him, shocked.

Sherlock tried to calm his vicious streak and start again. 'I talked to Sarah. That night at the dinner party.'

'What? You talked to Sarah? About our sex life? What the fuck-'

'She thought that your refusal to have sex with me is as much to do with your own issues as it is with mine.'

'My issues?' John was getting red in the face now. Sherlock began to have doubts about his mode of attack, but it was too late. He was committed, he couldn't go back.

'She suggested it might be to do with the fact that you have never had a relationship with another man.'

'Unbelievable,' John said, rubbing his palm over his flushed face and shaking his head. The gesture suddenly made Sherlock feel vulnerable.

'Is that true, John? Would you have had sex with me by now if I was a woman? Do I disgust you?'

John goggled at him in horror. 'God, no, Sherlock! How could you think that?'

Sherlock could feel his face twisting with pain. This was hard, this talking about things. That was why he had put it off, he realised now. Perhaps it had been better not knowing.

Then the dam broke. He had no idea how he'd done it, but John gave in, flung his hands up in despair.

'Okay, okay. It's not to do with you, it's me, alright?'

He rubbed his face again and then went to the window. Sherlock saw the muscles in his shoulders ripple as he yanked up the sash. A gust of hot breeze came in, ruffling the papers on the desk. John lent against the window frame, looking down at the street, his good arm up, his body silhouetted against the glare.

He seemed more beautiful than ever.

He turned his head to the side beam of the window and brought his forehead down smartly against it with a thud several times. Then he stood there, leaning into it, eyes scrunched shut, willing himself to break out.

'There were four of us that day,' he eventually said, in a voice full of pain and power. 'I was the only one that lived. Tom Medford was standing next to me when the firefight started. His wife had just had twins. Why did I live, and not him? They had to restart my heart twice in theatre, did you know that? I shouldn't be here. I didn't deserve to survive, and I don't deserve this, Sherlock. I don't deserve to be so happy.'

Hardly knowing what he was doing, Sherlock crossed the floor and stood close to John's back. He slipped his hands around his love's waist, feeling the way John pressed back against him, responding even against his will.

'I'm a bad man, John,' he told him. 'I'm cruel and vicious, and I don't give a damn about other people's feelings. The only thing I've cared about is the job, and I've sacrificed everything to that. Arrogance, ambition, lies. I've done it all - I've done things in my life that would make your pretty hair curl. I didn't deserve what Lasky and Nicholls did to me. But I don't deserve you either. I don't deserve to be as happy as you make me. I don't deserve your love. But I love you. Please let me show you how much I love you, John? Please?'

As he spoke, he pulled John tighter against him, resting his cheek against the naked skin above the doctor's collar, letting his breath ghost across it till goosebumps raised there.

'I want to take you to bed, John,' he whispered. 'I want to undress you and kiss every inch of your skin. I want to caress you. I want to give you pleasure. I want to make you as happy as you make me. I want to make you come, John.'

John's head lolled back against his shoulder.

'This is impossible,' he murmured, his eyes shut fast. 'You can't-'

'No, I can't. But you can. Let me give you this, my love, please? Let me give you this gift?'

Sherlock gently turned his lover in his arms and pressed him back against the wall beside the window. The light chiselled John's cheek, deepened the cornflower blue of his irises, brought out the silver threads in his fringe.

'God, you are breath-taking,' Sherlock couldn't help but gasp.

John reached up and grabbed a handful of Sherlock's hair to drag his head down. He kissed him with something akin to savagery. Sherlock knew his mouth would be bruised in the morning. He was thrilled.

His hands slid over John's body, feeling the muscle through the sweat-dampened cotton of his shirt. Then John pulled away.

'Anything, Sherlock. Anything you want,' he said, his voice deep and hoarse with desire.

* * *

><p><em>On Monday, Sherlock and John start to get to grips with the problem at hand...<em>


	18. Chapter 18

**The Case of the Cuddle Chapter 18**

Dear All, Welcome back to the Cuddle'verse, as Mirith Griffin has now kindly dubbed it - and it will forever be that for me now. I feel like I've been a million miles away instead of only 200, but thank you for all the good wishes.

So anyway, you've waited long enough...

* * *

><p>John hesitated when he reached the door of the bedroom.<p>

'I'm not holding out on you, but I think we should both take a shower,' he said, glancing up at Sherlock. Who frowned.

'You said-'

'Olfactory memory, Sherlock,' John told him. 'Smells can cue memories faster than pretty much any other stimuli. You know that. It's been a long, hot day, and I must stink like a pig. I don't want to trigger off a bad trip for you just because I haven't washed.'

Sherlock had to admit he had a point.

'You don't stink at all,' he said, leaning in to nuzzle John's ear and eliciting a particularly erotic sigh. 'You smell incredibly sexy, in actual fact. Very male. But I entirely take your point.'

'Good.' John led him back down the stairs and into the bathroom. They opened the window to let in the evening breeze and Sherlock closed the door. And then they stood there, opposite one another.

'Er,' said John.

'Let's get in together.'

'Okay.' He didn't look very sure. So Sherlock kissed him. That helped.

Sherlock started undoing John's shirt buttons, but he suddenly pulled away.

'This is about your shoulder, isn't it?' Sherlock sighed. 'Okay, I'll show you mine if you show me yours.'

It was an odd thing that although John had seen Sherlock naked a number of times, he himself had been very careful never to appear without clothes or a bathrobe. Even in a relationship in which they shared a bed, he had never shown his lover his torso. To begin with, Sherlock thought it was out of consideration for his situation, but after a while it became obvious that it was more than that. It was clearly an issue that John was unable to confront, so Sherlock did it for him. He stripped off his shirt and presented John with his elbow. There was a jagged white mark around it.

'There. See that? Barbed wire, when I was seven. I was riding my bike through the woods at Sandon, went over a bump, and fell off into a fence.'

John made a non-commital face.

'Okay, not impressed? Try this one.' Sherlock dropped his trousers and pants and turned to show John his ample posterior. 'See that purple mark? Fell out of a tree watching Mycroft snog his boyfriend one Easter when I was ten. The bruise has never gone away.' Actually, it was something of a bugbear for Sherlock, that bruise. Vain creature that he was, he felt the oval shadow on the side of his buttock marred his beauty.

John nodded, seeming marginally more impressed with that one. But that may have been to do with the bum.

Sherlock turned back, pinched his thigh to accentuate the raised ridge that ran diagonally across it. 'Chigwell Cheesewire murderer, the year before I met you. Evil bastard. Twenty-seven stitches. I was on crutches for a whole week. You want to see my appendectomy scar?'

'I think you've made your point.'

'Not quite.' Sherlock stood very close to John, breathing down onto his cheek, and pressed his index finger to his own chest. 'See this one? Maybe not. This is where John Hamish Watson broke my heart.'

'I didn't-'

'You did. That night, after the swimming pool. You tore it in two. I told you at the time it was the worst thing I ever saw, and I meant it.'

John looked up at him through bronze lashes. With shaking hands, he unbuttoned his shirt, and shrugged it off.

The skin underneath was puckered and red. There was a deep depression, and what looked to Sherlock like evidence of a skin graft.

'Oh, my love,' he whispered, sliding his hands about the doctor's waist. For a moment they stood together, silent. Sherlock pressed his cheek to John's forehead and closed his eyes, trying to control the trembling inside him. Eventually, when he thought that his voice might not shake, he spoke.

'Does it hurt?'

'Bit tender. It's okay so long as you don't jam your fingers in.'

Sherlock traced the ragged edges with his fingertip, then bent down and kissed it. John sighed. Sherlock kissed his lips softly, then gave him a wry look.

'You going to take off those jeans, or am I?'

John fumbled with his belt and buttons, then shoved the denim down and stepped out. Pulled off his socks. Stood there before his love, naked and shy.

Sherlock took in John's erection for the first time.

'Christ, it's huge,' he gasped.

'Flatterer.'

'No, seriously, John, fuck! I mean, look at it!' He couldn't keep the note of alarm out of his voice.

'It's okay, love. It's just normal size, I promise.'

'Really?'

'Yep.' But he was grinning insanely.

'But it looks huge to me!'

'Just average.'

'Are you sure?'

'I'm a doctor, I've seen plenty.'

Sherlock laughed. 'You really like it that I think you're huge, don't you?'

'It's what every man wants to hear.' His round face was bright with happiness for the first time since they had come home. The way his eyes twinkled with humour made Sherlock glow.

He looked down at his own penis. A roll of soft, harmless-looking skin between his legs, all but lost in auburn curls.

'Mine would never get that big,' he said.

John reached out and stroked the backs of his fingers along its flaccid length. 'You're so beautiful,' he whispered, awe in his voice. Sherlock searched his features as he gazed down, but saw nothing but tenderness.

'Is it okay?' he asked.

And John, realising the need for reassurance, said, 'perfect. So beautiful. I don't know what else to say. I don't have the words. It's lovely. Vulnerable. Delicate. It's what you are inside, the part of you that only I see.'

'You don't have to wax lyrical.'

'I can't help it. You have that effect on me.'

He looked up into Sherlock's eyes.

'Shower?'

Sherlock reached behind the nylon curtain and turned the dial. Water hissed into the tub. Steam belched. He turned the heat down. They got in and faced one another, let the stream drum on their skulls, stood close enough for their bellies to touch. John's cock brushed against Sherlock's thigh, and he flinched.

'We can stop any time you want,' John told him.

Sherlock picked up the shower gel, water dripping from his fringe. 'Soap?'

They poured gel into each other's palms and began to rub it over one another's chests. It was incredible. Sherlock had never touched anyone like this, so intimately. He worked up a lather in John's chest hair, thrilled at the way the nipples hardened against his palms, then worked his way down with circular strokes.

'Can I touch you there?'

'Yes. Careful with the soap, though.

'Of course. I've got one of my own, remember?'

He ran his slippery hand up John's length. The flesh felt incredibly hot. Its firmness resisted his fingers. John closed his eyes.

'Mmmm,' he smiled. 'Nice.'

Sherlock curled his fingers round, tested the diameter. John was uncircumcised, which was strange to Sherlock, being cut himself. He experimentally eased the foreskin back, and was rewarded with an indrawn breath. He cupped John's balls lightly in his palm, weighing them.

'Come here,' John said, opening his eyes and pulling the detective against him. Their bellies slithered and rasped together. 'I want to soap that epic arse of yours.'

Sherlock giggled, and then gasped as John cupped his backside and began to massage, his palms lubricated by the sweetly scented gel. He let his hands range up and down, into the small of Sherlock's back, tickling the dimples there, and down beneath the swell, stroking the creases and further, to his thighs and the sensitive, hairless backs of his knees, and up again.

Sherlock moaned. Every nerve ending was tingling.

'Nice?' John butted his head in under Sherlock's jaw and licked along his collar bone.

'Oh God,' Sherlock whimpered. 'How is that so good?' He felt giddy.

John sucked one of Sherlock's nipples. He jumped as if he had been electrocuted.

'What the-'

'Nice?'

'Stop using that word, it is woefully inadequate.'

'Sorry, I get monosyllabic when I'm this turned on.'

'Are you? Turned on, I mean?'

John caught his hand and wrapped it around his cock. 'Feel that? That's you, that is.'

Sherlock stared down into his love's eyes, his mouth open. He could barely believe it.

'We need to go to bed,' he croaked. 'Right now.'

They sluiced away the remains of the froth, turned the shower off, and dried themselves. Sherlock scrubbed at his hair with his towel viciously, loving the sensation against his scalp. Then he snuffled his nose into John's hair, which was standing up alarmingly.

'Cute little hedgehog,' he giggled.

'Fuck you, beanpole.' He gave Sherlock a resounding slap on the bum. 'You wanted upstairs? Upstairs, now.'

* * *

><p><em>Tomorrow, they may actually get down to business...<em>


	19. Chapter 19

**The Case of the Cuddle Chapter 19**

Sorry for the late arrival of the Cuddle Train today, I was out having a life. I hope that the content will prove a compensation!

**Warning**: Men having graphic nookie. Does what it says on the tin. Mention of sexual trauma.

* * *

><p>John lay down in the centre of the bed, and Sherlock crawled over him, taking his weight on his elbows and knees.<p>

'Is this okay?' he asked.

'Whatever you want, love,' John whispered. 'However much you can manage. It's all fine.'

'I want to touch you.'

'Yes.'

'Everywhere.'

'Yes.' John closed his eyes when he said the word, a kind of reverent affirmation.

Sherlock let himself down a little to one side of John's torso and stroked his hand over the doctor's chest. The skin was smooth and soft, the hair sparse. He leant in and kissed his way up and down John's neck, licked a little, nibbled at the collar bone. His lover sighed and settled back into the softness of the mattress.

'Nice?'

'Mmmmm.' John nuzzled his face, and Sherlock kissed his nose. And then his lips. Long and deep. So good. John tasted of peppermint gum. Sherlock allowed himself a lazy exploration, sliding his tongue around John's mouth, testing lips and gums and teeth. It felt soothing after the intensity of the shower. Still, there was so much new information to process, so many sensations in his own body. He loved the feeling of John's skin the length of him, the cool smoothness of John's side against his belly. He loved the way he tingled at John's touch. He loved the way that his hands were not the only data-gathering tool available to him in this context – he had never appreciated the sensual importance of the skin as a whole. It really was the body's largest sexual organ.

Finally, he found himself eager to get on and, sated with John's mouth, began to work his way down, over chest and belly, tasting skin, nibbling at nipples, grazing John's pectoral muscles with his front teeth. The doctor let out a soft moan, which encouraged him. He allowed his lips to stray further. John's lower belly and hips, and inner thighs. He kissed his way down, carefully circling round the hot erection, not ready to touch just yet. Besides, skin was good. And he liked the way John was reacting. Quivering. Spreading his legs. Murmuring indecipherable encouragements. He found he liked the flavour of John's hips the best, the silky skin in his groin, the seashell-smelling pubic hair.

Growing in confidence, he gave the base of John's cock an experimental nip. The little man groaned and wiggled his hips with pleasure.

'Good?'

'God, yeah.'

Sherlock stroked a fingertip along the length, studying the member close up. He touched the velvet sheath of skin, the brown mole on the side, the throbbing rope of the dorsal vein. It was soft and sweet and human, and smelt definitely of the seashore. He tried a kiss on the underside. The shaft twitched, the head slapping stickily against John's belly. The reddened tip was leaking glossy, clear fluid. He realised that if he meant to kiss it any more, he would have to hold it still. Gently, he circled its girth at the base with his fingers, and planted another kiss a little above his thumb.

John made a delicious growling noise at the bottom of his throat. Sherlock took that as assent. He began to kiss a little more concertedly, working his way up and down the length. This wasn't too bad, he decided. In fact, he rather liked it. The skin was soft against his lips and the scent was pleasant. He started to lick. Licked John like he was a lollipop. Base to tip. Long, wide-tongued licks, trailing slick ribbons all the way up and then blowing on them to evaporate the moisture.

John moaned. He struggled up onto his elbows to look. One glance told Sherlock he was headed in the right direction. John's pupils were so dilated there was barely a thread of iris discernible around their edges.

He licked harder. He could feel the rod thickening under his fingers. Well, he figured, now was as good a time as any. He took the head in his mouth.

Instantly the hideous memories came.

Sour-smelling, urine-tainted, sweaty cocks of teenagers being forced between his lips, the ammonia assaulting his nostrils; the gagging and the choking; the bleachy mucus of their ejaculations clinging to the back of his throat.

With a supreme force of will he focused on the Now of being with John, just as Hettie had taught him, refusing to dissociate from his body and the sensations of being with the man he loved, refusing to sink into the horrors of the past. It took all his powers of concentration, even as he swirled his tongue around John's cockhead and gently sucked. He realised his mouth was flooding with saliva. He would be sick if he didn't stop now.

He backed off and lay to one side, panting.

John pulled him up and held him. 'It's okay, love, it's okay. You don't have to do anything.'

'But I want to,' Sherlock whimpered.

John kissed him, soft and tender. 'Don't try to run before you can walk.'

They lay for a while, kissing and touching gently, looking into one another's eyes until Sherlock's breathing steadied and the panic subsided.

'I love you,' John whispered.

'I want to make you come,' Sherlock told him, aware that John's erection was softening. 'Your balls will ache if you don't.'

'I can take care of it,' John said.

'No,' his love breathed. 'I still want to touch you. I want to pleasure you. I want to stroke you till you cry out my name.'

'Oh, God,' John said as Sherlock's hand slithered down his body and grasped his cock again. It was amazing, Sherlock thought, how quickly it stiffened at his touch. He began to caress it, but he realised he didn't know what he was doing, and he was afraid of hurting his love. After all, he had never personally been able to masturbate, and right now his explorations into pornography seemed to offer little help. How hard could one move one's hand without eliciting pain? How fast would be pleasurable? Where should one place one's fingers, and where not?

John came to the rescue. He curled his fingers around Sherlock's and began to move their hands together.

'Is it good?' Sherlock gasped, looking into John's eyes.

'You think I haven't imagined you doing this for months?'

'Did you?'

'Every fucking wank, love. Your hand, in my head, I swear it. Now my dream's coming true.'

Now it was Sherlock's turn to moan.

He looked down. The purplish, divided head of John's cock was appearing and disappearing inside the circle of their thumbs as their hands moved backwards and forwards. Fat drops of pre-come beaded its tip. John threw his head back, and moaned, 'oh, yeah, like that!'

Sherlock found his breathing had speeded up. His heart was pounding.

Under his fist, blood was rushing into John's corpora even faster now, and the doctor ground his hips up to meet each down-stroke. He began to strain into the motion, moaning and panting. Perspiration dewed his upper lip. His cheeks and chest began to flush. Their hands were moving quickly, beginning to blur, Sherlock becoming aware of a cramp developing in his bicep from the motion. He didn't care. Watching John like this, writhing in desperate pleasure, was worth any discomfort.

'Oh, yeah,' John growled. 'Fuck me, fuck me harder.'

Sherlock obeyed. He had lost track of himself, aware only of John's approaching ecstasy, the way his lover's lips had parted, his mouth slack and debauched, veins standing out in his throat and temple, pulsing. He felt a sudden rush of fluid under his palm, through the thick flesh, and the first contractions of pleasure, and John cried out, his voice cracking with lust.

'Oh fuck, Sherlock, aaaaaahhhhh!'

A plume of white fluid fountained from the tip of Johns' cock. His back arched, so that only the crown of his head and his heels were in contact with the mattress. He writhed. He thrust up against Sherlock's hand as it milked the pleasure from him. He wailed. And eventually he fell back, spent, into the sheets.

Sherlock continued to caress him, bringing him down, until his hand closed over the detective's wrist and stilled the motion. They lay there, silent but for John's ragged breathing. The semen cooled on Sherlock's thumb. John finally prized his eyes open and looked at his lover, bleary-eyed.

'My God,' he wheezed.

'Nice?'

'Nice is definitely inadequate.'

He reached out and fumbled the box of tissues from the bedside table, pulled one out and scooped the worst of the gloop from his belly into it. Then he tugged another out and tenderly wiped Sherlock's hand. Sherlock watched him dab the end of his cock, squeezing out the last drops of fluid.

'You are a fucking revelation, you know that?' John said.

'And _you_ swear _a lot_ in bed.'

John looked a little panicked. 'Is that a problem? I didn't frighten you, did I?'

'It's fucking wonderful,' Sherlock grinned. 'And fucking sexy.'

* * *

><p><em>Tomorrow, Sherlock makes a breakthrough...<em>


	20. Chapter 20

**The Case of the Cuddle Chapter 20**

**Warning:** More nookie.

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed and favourited. This story has turned out to be a mammoth undertaking, but you have made it a wonderful experience just the same. I am so grateful for all your positive comments and constructive criticism.

So, lets start where we left off, shall we?

* * *

><p><em>John looked a little panicked. 'Is that a problem? I didn't frighten you, did I?'<em>

'_It's fucking wonderful,' Sherlock grinned. 'And fucking sexy.'_

'Seriously, are you okay?' John lay back, slipping his arm around Sherlock's shoulders. The detective snuggled in.

'Fine. Sorry about the panic there.'

'You push yourself to hard. Too much, too soon.'

They lay on their backs, staring at the ceiling.

After a while, Sherlock said, 'I just had sex.'

John grinned. 'No, you are having sex. Present tense.'

'Am I?'

'Yes. Well, I was wondering.'

'Yes?'

'You might not want to.'

'I don't know till you ask me.'

'Will you let me kiss you?'

'Yes.'

'Everywhere?'

'Yes.'

'Even there?'

'Yes.'

'You'll stop me if it's too much?'

'Yes.'

'Fuck.'

'What?'

'I feel like I've just been given the keys to Fort Knox.'

Sherlock laughed. 'I'm not wearing a chastity belt, you know!'

John rolled him over, his eyes twinkling. 'Maybe I should get you one. Might be sexy.'

'I don't think so.'

'Why not?'

'Because I can think of sexier things to spend your money on.'

'Like?'

'Mmmmm, you in a silk shirt, for a start.'

John wrinkled his nose. 'Not really me.'

Sherlock wriggled his eyebrows suggestively. 'Sex on a stick,' he said.

'What, me in a silk shirt?'

'_So_ hot.'

'Your department, I think, silk. I'm more your 'bit of rough' type.'

'Battle fatigues?'

'Don't.' But he didn't look upset.

'Bet you look really cute in your khakis.'

'Now, what did we say about that word, Sherlock Holmes?'

'Doctor Hamish says we're not allowed to use it,' Sherlock parroted.

They giggled.

'I have to kiss you now,' John breathed. And he did.

He had never kissed Sherlock like that. There was a weight in that kiss, a certainty. Sherlock could feel the change, the admission.

When they came up for air, Sherlock looked up into his John's eyes. 'This is for keeps, isn't it?'

'Yes.' John sounded gruff. His eyes filled.

'Me too.' They gazed at one another. But it was too much for John to hope that his lover's mighty brain had switched off for the duration.

'Tell me why you want to kiss me there.'

'Isn't it obvious?'

'Not to me. It doesn't do anything, after all. I can't imagine why anyone would want to, let alone you.'

'After what you just did to me?'

'Doesn't compute. I won't respond.'

'How do you know?'

'I know.'

'If that was my answer to a scientific problem, you'd rip me to shreds.'

Sherlock gave this due consideration. After a while, he suggested, 'Elton Mayo and the Hawthorne experiments.'

'I always thought that sounded like a bad Prog Rock band! Anyway, it's bollocks, you're groping about for excuses. Just 'cos you're watching me, it won't change the result. It's not as if you couldn't watch me. And I'm not interested in the results. I'm interested in whether you enjoy it or not.'

'Surely, that _is_ a result. But I suppose I could close my eyes.'

John shook his head. 'If you don't want me to, just say.'

Sherlock stroked his cheek. 'I want you to. I just don't understand why you want to.'

'Because you are beautiful. Because I love you. Because you are unbearably sexy. Because if I can help you feel even a tenth of what you just made me feel, then it will all be worth it.' He paused. 'And because the idea of having your beautiful soft cock in my mouth is just filing my head up with all kinds of horny right now.'

'You really find it sexy?'

'Yep.'

'Unbelievable.'

'No, utterly rational. It's just that you don't see it.'

John slithered down Sherlock's body and began to kiss his way across his belly until he reached his navel. That was where the magic began.

'Oh, God! I can't believe you're doing that!' Sherlock's voice came out ridiculously high as John tongue-fucked his belly button.

'Fnuffgh,' John said, his mouth fully occupied.

Oh, but it felt good. So good. Something in there was connected directly to his perineum, Sherlock was sure, because there was a honied, piercing sensation spearing him right up between his legs and into the hot core of his bowels.

John laved.

Sherlock squirmed. And squealed.

John came up for air, his face rather pink. He raised a questioning eyebrow.

'Did I tell you to stop?' Sherlock panted back. Hot tingles were coursing down his inner thighs. 'How the hell do you do that?'

John progressed down, licking and kissing Sherlock's groin, gnawing on his hipbones. Sherlock responded with several involuntary thrusts.

'That's it, baby, come to daddy,' John growled.

He set out along Sherlock's thighs mercilessly, leaving no stone unturned in his search for every last sensitive spot on Sherlock's lower body. By the time he reached the arches of the detective's feet, he was a panting puddle of sensation on the sheets. Then John sucked his toes.

Sherlock wailed. 'Oh, yes, _please_!'

John raised a wry eyebrow at him. 'Shrimping eh? Well I never.' And went back to Sherlock's little toe.

Once every pedal digit was taken care of, John flipped his love onto his front, and worked his way back, taking care over the backs of Sherlock's knees, which he had already established in the shower as especially responsive, and then up the backs of his thighs. Then he sat on his heels and circled his palms over Sherlock's buttocks.

'You really do have the most existential arse.'

Sherlock was almost delirious with sensation. 'I have no idea what that means,' he moaned into the pillow.

'Neither do I, except that it's just begging to be chewed.'

And he sank his teeth in.

It was like electricity had been pumped directly into Sherlock's spinal cord. He writhed, grinding his hips down into the bed, jerking his cock against the folds of the sheets in impotent need. John was having the time of his life, biting and sucking and licking and mouthing and kissing and kneading Sherlock's gluteal muscles, and moaning happily to himself. And that luscious keening overloaded Sherlock's sensory apparatus all the more. He found himself helplessly fucking the bedclothes, his head spinning, his mind swooping and diving blind inside a cloud of sensory pleasure. It was not just that nothing like this had ever happened to him before. It was that he had never dreamed such a thing was even possible. All his life, he had derided those who made themselves slaves to sex, but now he understood them. It was the best high he had ever had, and he wasn't even hard yet. Fuck cocaine! Who needed that when you could have this?

'Oh John Oh John Oh John,' he found himself repeating, an erotic mantra that was consuming his mind.

John, mindful of the advances being made, flipped his lover deftly over onto his back, and took the opportunity of Sherlock's mental overload to make his final sexual ascent. He took the soft roll of the detective's cock in his mouth. Whole.

Sherlock gasped in disbelief.

It was beyond incredible.

His last coherent thought was, what would this be like if I was actually hard?

John pressed his nose into Sherlock's pubic hair as he engulfed him hungrily, and began to work his tongue. Explosions of pleasure broke out across Sherlock's skin. His hips convulsed, jerking up and down. Cold fire blazed down his back and legs. The soles of his feet tingled. Heat bloomed across his chest and cheeks. His balls and anus, even his perineum, began to throb deliciously. He grabbed helplessly at the sheet and moaned, 'Oh, God!'

Then he felt the rushing. A hot sensation in his scintillating gonads. He writhed, gasped. Saw John gulping, his eyes wide with surprise. He had no idea what was happening, but his whole body caught fire, a light, white fire of firing neurons and crackling nerve endings. He shook. He fell back into the pillow, gasping. It was over as soon as it had happened, but he instantly knew that it was something incredible, something important.

John slurped off him, and sat back on his heels again, licking his lips.

'What?' Sherlock asked, his breathing ragged.

'You just ejaculated.'

'What? But that's impossible.'

'No. It wasn't much, but it was definitely there. Was it good?'

Sherlock flopped back against the pillow. 'Incredible.' He was sweating. His heart was galloping. He felt amazing.

'I…I..'

But there didn't seem to be anything he could say.

He started to cry with joy instead.

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><p><em>Tomorrow, in the penultimate episode, Sherlock considers his new life...<em>


	21. Chapter 21

**The Case of the Cuddle Chapter 21**

Hello, my lovelies. I was very touched by the reviews left for the last two chapters. You are so kind. And since you seem to like the Cuddle'verse so much, I have decided I have to write a sequel. Our journey thus far will end tomorrow, but coming soon I promise a Post-Reichenbach reunion, and in the interim, while I write it, I have a few other little morsels up my sleeve to keep you entertained.

In the meantime, thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed and favorited my work. I am so moved and grateful.

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><p>Sherlock watched John fall into a post-coital doze, his cheek pressed against the pillow, mouth open. He snored softly. Sherlock smiled. He lay there for an hour or so, happily engaged in studying his lover. It was impossible to imagine that anyone could be more beautiful. But eventually, the pressure of brain and bladder became too much. He shuffled across the upper landing to the little shower room opposite, and relieved himself. He pulled the chain and washed his hands, splashed water on his face and then stared into the mirror.<p>

Sherlock Holmes looked back.

A different Sherlock Holmes to the one who had left the house that morning. A different Sherlock to the one who had stared back at him from the mirror his entire life.

This Sherlock Holmes had a future.

He has spent his thirty-five years working his way from puzzle to puzzle. It had not mattered whether the puzzle was the latest locked-room murder, or where to get the next fix. His life had been a series of problems to be solved. He had never thought beyond the next conundrum, never considered anything except accumulating sufficient knowledge to assist him in working out the next twisted criminal mind. He had never considered the idea of long term planning because he had never conceptualised a future in connection with himself. Now, suddenly, he could look down the years and see himself and John together in their sixties, sitting in bed side by side, reading glasses perched on the ends of their noses, their hair grey (and in John's case, alarmingly receding), frowning at whatever book they had in their laps, John sipping at his evening cup of tea, and Sherlock at a mug of Ovaltine that John would have made for him.

He thought of the years in between, chasing over rooftops, evading criminals, detecting fiendish plots, escaping death by the skins of their teeth. Sharing a home, and a life together. Sharing a future. It had never occurred to Sherlock that such a thing was possible for him. He felt his heart swell with joy at the thought.

He put the lid of the lavatory down and sat on it to think. It was a very strange feeling, optimism. And entirely new to him.

He looked down at the flaccid flesh between his legs. It had never felt like part of his body. It had been an alien thing that had been attached to him in order to cause him misery and torture. Now suddenly it had become a thing of joy. And potential. He wondered what it would be like if it sat up, right there and then, erect. How long would it be? What colour? He found himself giggling at the prospect. It wasn't so far-fetched now. Tomorrow he would ask John about Viagra. He had never bothered to consider any treatments before, primarily because he never expected to be in a situation where anyone would want his body. It disgusted him, so he had assumed it would do the same to everybody else. He had not understood that it only disgusted him because of what had been done to him. Now, John wanted him. John had specifically said he found Sherlock's body sexy. And he had proved it. And against all of Sherlock's own expectations (and probably John's too) his body had responded. Sherlock actually felt sexy. And even better, he didn't feel bad about it. Perhaps an erection would happen in the future. With time and patience, and a few of those little blue pills, it may be possible.

He closed his eyes and remembered the experience John had just given him. He went through every sensation in meticulous detail. He had recorded it all. It was almost as sensational a memory as it had been to experience at the time. It left him grinning like an idiot. He had actually ejaculated. It was beyond belief. But it had happened. And it had been completely thrilling.

As making love to John had been. He allowed his mind to rove back over that strong, solid body and the way it had responded to him. The kisses, the scents, the flavours, the sounds. He realised he had begun to tingle again, just from the memory. He wanted to do it again. He wondered what John's refractory time might be. He wondered if he liked morning sex. He thought of all the places they might do it. He considered how he might press John against the wall of an alley in the dark, kneel down and suck him into heaven. He thought how they might loll naked together in a hot tub, relishing the sensuality of contact under water. He considered what it might be like to strip naked in the fresh air, in some country field, on a hot summer afternoon with bees buzzing in the clover. They would lie down on a blanket and make love in the sunshine, with the breeze cooling their skin. He thought of a hundred places around the flat they could do it, and then there was New Scotland Yard, and Mycroft's office, and the Morgue, although he thought John might have some qualms about that. And then there were taxis, heaven only knew how many there were of them in London – he knew the answer to that but he couldn't be bothered to dig it out of his immense brain. The idea of collecting those bench seats as sites of fellatio seemed infinitely stimulating. He had no doubt that eventually he would be able to get through a blow job without panicking. John would help him. Time would help him.

It was strange how everything in his life had suddenly fallen into place. John finally becoming his lover. The home they shared. His career really taking off. Lestrade and Mycroft settling down together (they hadn't been explicit about this, but it was clear from the way they spoke of one another that something profound was happening in that direction). Even Sarah marrying Andrew.

There was only one thing left to do before he could truly declare himself happy. And that was to take care of Jim Moriarty.

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><p><em>Tomorrow, in the final part, Mycroft has a premonition…<em>


	22. Chapter 22

**The Case of the Cuddle Chapter 22**

Dear All, Thanks once again to every last one of you who has read this story, reviewed and favourited it. I am so, so grateful. I can't believe its done so well. I have so enjoyed being with you every day, and it has been an enormous learning exercise, especially dealing with such difficult and often poignant material. Thank you for being so receptive.

DON'T PANIC! This may be the last episode, but I already have a sequel on the boil, and you can look forward to a post-Easter, Post Reichenbach continuation of John and Sherlock's roller-coaster love affair, a light sprinkling of Mystrade and, because I promised Mirith, a spot of fisticuffs in the park. Don't forget to put me on Author Alert if you don't want to miss it!

Happy Easter everyone!

**Warning:** Last chapter of this odyssey, with forebodings afoot for series 2.

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><p>Mycroft slipped out onto the roof terrace, barefoot. He wrapped his silk dressing gown tightly around his body and fumbled in the pocket for the packet of Rothmans and the lighter that he kept there for just such rare occasions. He took a lungful of the chilly night air and lit himself a cigarette, then blew a long trail of smoke out into the abyss below the railing on which he leant. Up here, far above the street lights, it was surprisingly dark, the only illumination the eerie glow of the underwater uplighters in his rooftop pool. The water lapped at the sides, casting shimmering fish-scale patterns against the side of the penthouse.<p>

The Thames formed a ribbon of midnight at the foot of the tower. Overhead, a Lear jet skimmed the rooftops, heading down river towards City Airport to land. Further up, the red lights of incoming jumbos blinked, stacking over London on the final leg of their long haul flights, limping in from Jakarta or Cape Town in the last hours of night. No outbound flights would take off for several more hours. He watched them, wondering about the passengers on board, what adventures and nightmares they carried in their hearts, whether they were returning home to loved ones, or leaving them behind.

The tip of his cigarette glowed orange. Across the river, Big Ben chimed. He took another long drag. It was always hard to sleep on nights like this, nights when the memories and fears and words left unsaid flowed through him like a glacier. His own heart was filled with darkness.

He became aware of movement behind him. The bi-fold doors opened with a soft crunch, and warm arms slipped around his waist. Greg, wrapped in Mycroft's plush towelling bathrobe. He pressed his body against Mycroft's back, resting his cheek on the spy's spine.

'Can't sleep?'

Mycroft shook his head, took another drag, and offered it over his shoulder.

'No thanks. It was hard enough to quit the first time.'

Mycroft laughed briefly. 'I don't usually.'

'I know.'

Mycroft drained the last inch of tobacco and flicked the butt into the chasm of the river. He watched the point of orange light twirl into the darkness until it disappeared.

'What's wrong, love?' Greg whispered.

'I fear I have done that which I ought not to have done, and left undone that which I ought to have done, and there is no health in me. As Thomas Cranmer would have put it.'

'I don't understand.'

'Book of Common Prayer.' He sighed. 'I can't rid myself of the sneaking suspicion that I have made a catastrophic mistake. I've searched and searched, but I just can't work out what it is.'

'Everyone feels like that sometimes,' Greg said, sliding around his lover's body until they were facing one another. 'It's just normal paranoia.'

'Paranoia in a man of my profession is a survival trait. This is something different.'

'Your spidey sense is tingling.'

'I beg your pardon?'

'I mean, you're feeling a sense of foreboding.'

'Yes, I suppose so.' He looked deep into Greg's dark eyes, searching for the comfort he always found there. 'Something is coming, Greg. Something bad, I can feel it. Steel wrapped in velvet. Something cruel. I just can't see where it's coming from.'

Greg gentled Mycroft's cheek in his palm, fondly. 'Whatever it is, we'll deal with it.'

Mycroft smiled back at him. 'Thank you for being here.'

'Come back to bed, love,' the inspector whispered.

_FIN_

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><p><em>Coming soon THE SEQUEL: After Sherlock's death, John has to face the prospect of going to Sarah and Andrew's wedding without the love of his life…<em>


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